at times, we find what we didn’t know we were looking for
I hunt at dawn as my ancestors have done, as predator subject to prey. Not on open plains or crouched behind shrubbery. Not hidden except under mask of scarf, arms apart, waiting in lines. Around and behind what few pharmacies or groceries open early.
I hunt in quantum red spacer lines, leaning on their presumptive measure of safety. Yours and mine. They will ( else we will ) one day be relics. I hunt at dawn to clear the fog of dreams, streaming blowback of a new-normal day. Monitored store doors of attrition. Entry and exit. One out; one in.
Pandemic dreams about what is unclean, much of which makes mother Earth weep to think we don’t know better. I hunt at dawn on the edge of her new world. A world rich with audio and images that impress without touching. Bringing us closer, for now we know: who we are, is what we’re hunting.
( Easter 2020 )
