by V. Z. Marcus

Created on: September 18, 2009

Buzzards

He sat next to a tall chair facing north, his cheek colliding with a temperate sunset. He would stare down the long, ambulant paths through a thick never clear enough to identify which rustle or howl beckoned a break in his hypnosis, until it's hum, the forest, would sing him back into oblivion. The clouds and their motions in the evening were a vessel wherein the substance of his solitude could elongate; thrive and develop as the seconds crept into minutes to entreat the environs of this singularity. The wind was breezing east and towards a fledging lake which dominated the landscape, calling forth the woodlands population of man and animal, where it's muddied slopes acquired both necessity and demand, for it's beggars and despots. Sometimes his stupor would subside long enough for a hasty intake of fresh mountain air, but never long enough to quell the white of noise that echoed into uncertainty, past the galloping electric poles and pastures, down into the deep of a darker valley, one which would be veiled by it's wonton host; the approaching night.

He would see on occasion the glint or gleam of an animal, it's eyes and subsequent stare beaming the poise of nocturnal fortune on their subordinates; a lesser rodent or bird moving towards it's next meeting with life in the dusk. A grin would find it's way to his face when he saw the crane in flight over the bog, it's noble crescent ascending to the moons cylindrical smile, where it would always seem to remain, flying about in moments when the sky seemed an ocean, and gravity was hitherto suspended. He would watch intently the bird's descent into the upper tree tops, where only memories of rapture remained, vexed and impaled by the trees trembling branches. His hands quivered as he sat on a vacant porch, swaying forth to the rhythm in his head. The sky was open to him, where the early stars could be seen, all of which he held near to his heart. Venus grimaced and disclosed it's penance to the enclaves of openness, where Polaris was seated, overlooking the earth and it's creations. Shivers and shakes were his only response to an essence of ambiguity, where only the leaves and green of things were concrete. Never, in any deliberation, could he sunder the stars and this strange feeling into meaning.

His gaze was centered on the paths leading down into the valley, where he would on occasion invest his thoughts in a daydream. The rolling grasses would slowly but surely mutate into the fire of his thoughts,

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