Between the eyeball of the sun, and its lid of clouds, and the rising unfinished stone of the moon I’m aligned. And attuned. The rhythm of one setting, the other ascending; my arms the scale, my brain the point fixed between both so dies.

The day decays in the west; the moon lifts out of the periwinkle east. The cicadas begin their whine, and kite-winged birds crazily pivoting hunt out the last dragonflies of the day. Not yet twilight, the last lights of day sink into the park; all gravity in the solarsystem I feel on the crown of my head.

A page flutters. To the west blocks of smoke and city; to the east land’s end, and the lighthouse beam prowling the waves somewhere in time. Nothing but silt and sediment, the relics of glaciers to bridge the two. Yes yes.

Midsummer nights dream.