The sky looks down with beseeching grey eyes that stare back at it from new potholes in the tired asphalt. The monsoon has stopped to catch a breath, its furious outburst now just a wet note left on the soggy air, ink dripping slowly down the rounded edges of its calligraphed verse.
There must be a word for this Marcus, this after-rain heaviness, this turbulent mix of relief and melancholy, a moment when every word can be written yet there isn’t one to describe how the leaves carry the last raindrops in their trembling hands, wanting to hold them a little longer before the wind or sun stakes a claim.
It is that realization of their transience that improves their worth.
Like life. Knowing death.
A pause. A pause that was a surrogate silence holding up a placard, calling on someone to speak. Anyone. Instead, we watch the branch quiver under the wing of a hungry raven, blades of grass raising their heads to catch the falling shower. The leaf, unburdened, alone, shone a dull green in the liquefied sunlight.
No. There are no words.
awake in the eyrie
the eagle dreams of shooting stars
burning the sky