Song with no real words

It’s spring, but in other places it is
not-yet-spring. It’s dry, or wet

with monsoon, or it is why-is-there-still-
snow-on-the-ground. It’s strange and high,

that mechanical whine in the night, coming
from somewhere beyond the ceiling. It’s

Wednesday, and in another place already
Thursday; it is night, though here it is

still half-past noon; and look at the news-
paper! On the upper left, a woman in a pale

peach dress is smiling and waving her hand.
On the bottom right, there’s a picture

of cities burning: it’s spring, or whatever
season it is for laughter or slaughter, a

difference of one letter between one state
of being and another. It’s that time when cows

and sheep are calving, when blood is the marker
for a life breaking away, or maybe just breaking.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Gloaming.

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