Another night of shadows creeping along the walls in soldierlike formation leaving illuminated strips in their wake: part of a painting, a curtain, a photo on the dresser covered in dust.
A slit of fresh air carries competing bird songs. Ceaseless cries of doves in flight or about to take off, cooing like babies. You want to pick one up and feel its smoothness, seeming filled with gel, the flattest shade of brown, like a cookie.
At five am shadows travel in an endless roundabout, cajoled by darkness and the distant light of traffic bouncing into the bedroom.
Mush-mouth, mush-brain. Another get up and go traveling round and round throughout the day like shadows circling a room. Barely knowing yourself or others. Small, see-through knowledge, anymore just wondering how to touch a wild bird.
Image by Adam Strong, Poem by Susan DeFelice
Backwards Trajectory 