Braided glass

Some one else’s music on the wind sets a dream tone. I once laid in a cow field and felt I was only a pebble on the earth’s surface.

An empty glass vase of smudged glass sits at the center of the brown wood table in a slanted field, surrounded by slumped daises.

Nature and unnatural are fluid, or, neither exist and we need a new word for what this is: human. Coughed phleghm left on the white enamel sink stains and sticks, takes something gritty to dislodge.

The sounds of humming birds surprise me, like braiding glass, a syncopated and multi pitched static. I can not write the way I talk, I keep things separate.