traps for their tongues.

When words shift, so shift the continents. There’s something, there’s always something, ephemeral, tenable, exhaling. The great blue heron taking to flight, the buy one get one free pound of Jimmy Dean sausage at the grocery store remembering to you an almost lost morning, or the one act play bearing you back ceaselessly against the current, into the past. (Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.)

The words do not want to come though the clouds crowd together, jangling and humming, promising a down pour they may yet renege upon; but I’m a girl who once dedicated a thing to a thirteen year old’s promise, for promises are meant to be kept. So I’m stalking tonight, eyes reflecting the light, biting my patience for my prey. There’s a fine half of a book left for me to fall in like a pit, and so maybe I’ll be ambushed (oh, if only I could be ambushed) and the next stories come while half a baker’s dozen worth of make-believe people eye me and I lay my traps for their tongues.

Yeah, I’m in a weird mood. It’s almost midnight and I have nowhere to be tomorrow but another world. I know it’s been a while. Things happened in that while. Some wonderful. Some less than. Soon I’ll have a more cohesive entry for you. Until then, leave me to hunt for the glue.

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