Casually spring awakens, with a gentle burst of buds and bird song; a woodpecker to be more precise, each morning around eight, long after the smaller birds had their breakfast and left notes on the doorstep to their feeder.
It is not morning as I write, as these words find their way out, four a.m approaches, a moon long gone, only the glistening lasts, the kind which makes early buttercups radiate in the dark.
Creatures with a basic structure from the Mesozoic era slip underneath the skirting boards, while I still consider the possibility of masturbating, perhaps out of boredom or wonderment.
For the restless, for the searching, there’s energy channeled through a tiny needle hole at this time of day – because it is new, untouched. Who could be suspicious of something so innocent, offering resourcefulness in plenty.
If I had my way I’d be out on the tree swing, until my tummy turns, until I faint, until reality blurs with what one most desires.
What blinds us is not the light – Manfred Mann would prove me right – but fear from underneath, slowly swamping the ground, until we believe it to be too late to drown.
One may think this too thrilling, at least certain that the dam on the surface is solid enough to not make you lose touch with the soil.