The Captivity of Water: Musing on Parts of the Whole

Being Southern Somewhere Else

I tilt my head back, feel torrent of my hair against my shoulders.  It clings.  Behind closed eyes, I count the weight of these strands the color of honey and gossamer fine, heavy as brocade on the back of my neck.  It is afternoon on a day that renders shade a precious resource in the way that even tepid water quenches thirst.  It is no cooler beneath the canvas awning, but the illusion fostered by shadow is enough. Where the shadow does not fall, the sun’s heat is furious. Active. Burning bare shins, a portion of one elbow, an unclothed shoulder.  Each a conscious part of me–connected by nerve endings that sing frantic songs of fire and danger to an addled brain.

Vacuum is an Illusion

On an afternoon like this, languor is encouraged.  The speed of thought slows, stills, lulled by the sound of bees gathering pollen, distant traffic…

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