THE AIRPLANE

I won't explain the fate of Butcher's Corner, thank god. Talking backwards, the cat on our fence knows a lot about that. What a diet -- he eats like a bird and there is nothing left but a grin. An understandable, even predictable cat nonetheless, in last light through evening leaves. Chartreuse mandala. Gone. The airplane that never landed.

A radiometer brought out for instruction in the obvious dimension is fascinating, dancing the tune by which cats sing to birds, interpreting the light of feathers and a beak. Or a ripple on the water dish. Perfectly understandable.

Lost in a race to the full moon with all its freckles and blemishes, or catching up with daddy long legs in the spider dell, there is that magic half hour known to photographers, finches, doves, cats, squirrels, all of a like mind at evening's supper table. At some point the confabulation of pixel skirmishes will be over.

Not tumbling but doing invisible barrel rolls that suck the marrow out of meaning. Looping, suffused ball lightning that bounces right on through the asphalt and concrete workers who set up klieg lights for night work on our street, to unearth a broken pipe.

Of course the nature of this illumination is a play on words, inescapably written in a convenience of shadows. Light and dark are yin yang in their incestuous relations. The black berries that were red once mix easily with a little sugar for pie. Roses and carnations are snuffed by scientists on the trail of dark energy, having watched the light of our familiar dimension disappear over an event horizon, down, down into a black hole grin. The play that suffuses Shakespeare’s rhythm is proof through the night of our radiometer's spin.

The disappearing grin on our fence lacks a neighbor's introduction, growing fast from kitten to full fledged hunter. Ripples in a water dish foreshadow the play. It flashes faster than light --

Feed your head!