The Awoken Swirl

 

In the burning early morning, the tasks ahead, the awoken swirl, the climbing walls.  Shut the easy eyes, lay a bit, smooth.  Rest right there.  Then and there.  Let it turn, let it travel, let it be.

Trip thinking.  Near the sea.  Listen to the sway.  Out on Galveston Island, near Jamaica Beach.  Texas reggae romps and raps.

Anything at all can be done, or attempted, at least.  Shake the cans, stir the pot, loosen up, policies and procedures are for the birds.  Like chickens, whose flight is more like an extended leap, ten feet high, forty feet long.  Or ostriches, who simply cannot fly through the air, no amount of flapping will lift their weight.  Grounded, captured, eaten, no doubt the egg came first.