requiem for the sky

the day defies all logic.

grey clouds sweep over the ranges and for a moment i forget my location. my bearings scattered, sattelites swept over with washes of swirling moisture. must the weather always be a metaphor for some other time and place?

i shut myself in with my piles of paper. statistics swing from the cobwebs and play poker with task lists whilst my back is turned. i'm not sure if they're breeding or eloping or fighting or fucking.

i'm not sure of anything when I can't see the sky

i pull myself back to the warm glow of composure
drift back to sensibility again.