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.