intuition may be more than meets the eye
My nephew cannot read clouds for rain or interpret birdsong as I can. But he assures me of bonds beyond, that my intuition taps on occasion.
Shadowy tendrils wriggle around the globe, uncle. Some throb where a loved-one died. Time will cauterize or bind them to those still alive.
Other are the strings of being. That’s the closest I can tell you. Attraction precedes matter; to be is to belong. Only distance limits the tether.
I look up to open sky. To my nephew, it is full with ropes that bind relationships. The vaccine worked its way into who we are, what we see.
Babies were born like corn fields, vast and without a weed. Perfection by production, like the franken-food in the produce aisle.
Would we have evolved where an injection took us in a generation? Or never arrive—because even now, agitation grows among the young.
We need to change parts of the whole. We can no longer plunder out of insensibility. In this, the virus was more a judgment than accident.
There we have it: told this is our last chance. Told by those, themselves a sign of the times—like tendrils of rain, forecast and reaching for us.
