Deflated
An Aubade
Dawn just past, I’ve shuffled to the kitchen window.
In the bleary ambiguity, a crepuscular haze,
a scene I cannot resolve in light so low.
On the walnut leaves and dry grass there is something that contrasts.
Aglow, reflecting light, as from some source within. So it seems.
Panning and tilting, canine-style, seeking clarity,
I work at comprehension. No luck.
I start coffee. I go back for shoes. Open the back gate.
Cranes croak overhead.
Every plane is textured, every bit of living or inert surface
made to drink in the light. Except for the shiny bit.
Even as I close, forty feet, then twenty, then ten, this
stuck pixel in my backyard display
gleams anomolously. To be so close to mystery is a rare thrill.
Three feet now. And this magic, this glitch, is neither.
It is a balloon. Or was.
Spent mylar. An instant relic of not long bygone glee.
I listen to the stillness of morning
and imagine a lingering laugh.
