Rolling cumulus, scattered showers, shattered fragments raining down. Earthly diagnosis: a front of suffering energized by behaviors in bully-driven rooms. I underutilize power and let it drift on an ocean of heartbreak.

Then I break an egg, wonder why there are no chickens outside in the bush. Make a plan to build a small cage and fill it with hens, their gentle clucking beneath the rustling leaves a signature to the skillet, a call sign for the end of something.

What runs from these bloody fingertips rips and trips and tumbles through the yips of establishing good governance over my life and actions until perhaps I canter to a halt beneath a heavenly starscape that settles the argument as to where we are and where we can aim for next.

I pick the bow, a tip of the hat to Pleiades and her springtime absence as we spiral on our lonesome paths: a part of the oblivion and the living dance.