.

full moon, low winds off the lake, and the usual late evening drive
spent writing in my head to the sound of a chorus singing something
classical, the sense of being born out of time, that this time is somehow
'wrong' without being able to explain 'how' or why', and lost to a string
of moments that stretch into years, that seem off, out of joint,
discombobulated as my father would say (I miss you Dad), like the
year of not sleeping which was last year, like feeling stuck in a web
or being chased by that faceless predator until my legs move so slowly
that the only recourse is to pull myself along a chain link fence by my arms
(a recurring dream since childhood), wanting to turn the car west and
just drive through the dark into a night without end.

the little tundra swan who was injured this winter has decided not to
migrate north for the spring with the trumpeters. we've named her Gloria
and she has gone missing in the past week. months ago, she was found injured,
shot in the wing and has since recovered but may not be able to fly long
distances anymore. so we watch out for her. there is a small group who
looks out for injured macro birds, and amoung them the question 'have you
seen Gloria?' is wrought with implication; it asks if there has been more evidence
of animal (bird) abuse (like paint ball target practice to white swans at night,
the kill shot being their head).

I think I could write a dissertation about disorientation, dislocation,
disequilibrium, put it in a letter to no one and send it into the ether, or ...