Night Flying

There was a pitter patter, soft feet creeping through the night, wonders and terrors riding the fierce northern wind, echos of Frank Sinatra incongrous to the raging tempest, the earth trembled and the river’s belly grew full as is consumed snow banks with an insatiable hunger.

Ice tinkles melodic in my glass, which is half full at the moment, in case you were fishing for metaphors. It bellies the comotion of wind chimes tossing madly mere inches from the window pane, as I contemplate stillness in the midst of it all.

The silence held between one breath and the next is a weightless perfection. This space is just big enough to fit me, and I could never show another person what I see now with my eyes closed.

The invisible roads traveled by intangilble gusts in the night is my playground. Bending supple and free around any and all obstruction, dancing the willowy dance of abstraction through city zones where hedges and property lines pose no obstical. Not even the wing of a night owl could follow my path through through the darkness of winter as I twine through the tree trunks on a whim and a thought.

I can also dance between raindrops, when the moon is right… In case you ever wanted a private dance you would not soon forget… But of course you would have to catch this tiger by the tail first.


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