Signs And Wonders

Finished with threshing the mowers sit dead in the pit of this cochlear on-ramp; concentric circles like alien fields blaze with the heat of a June sun at noon. And what scant meanings could attach the image from retina to hypothalamus and back? It’s just municipal trivialities, yet wrings recollection from the sponging cortices. Fifty-seconds later a green arrow still ticks, forgotten for these words. I rush in, jot and expand the thought into a red-tailed hawk unfolded by wind. Cool fall air, crisp blue sky. My how time passes in the mind…