In this bickering room, pale orange light on the ceiling casting its shadow over me, it’s apparent that we’re here (where you are), to be where we can attempt to always “be,”
to be how we want to be, puzzled by hysteria of actionable wind, possible tornadic activity on the horizon, in the backward assemblages of “Really? This kind of weather in February?”
Taco seasoning and onions cooking in a large wok. Ambulance in the distance. The trees sparkle louder, even during the darkening evening, and I hear a dog collar, as well,
but I focus on the sirens instead. Perhaps a Fire truck, as well? Combinations of siren-sounds in all directions. Every horizon has its nose turned upwards; knees bent, eyes focused ahead.
Watch me do a 180 while standing still. Did you see me, did you blink too fast?