Another Day Of Prosaic Miracles

Damn. It's already hot and steamy here this morning, you might even call it sultry weather, oh yeah.

What a great word, sultry.

The crickets are humming early-morning-buzziness, the guy who drives his tractor to the truck stop to buy beer broke down in my front yard but got 'er going again, the big chickens are out, already busy with their stations of the scratching, Madonna flashed a pretty pink nipple onstage in Istanbul, Matthew McConaughey married the mother of his children, and this is life on Planet Earth, this and everything else, and all of the despair and all of the joy and all of the scratching in the dirt to find the tasty bugs and the tasty bugs eat whatever they eat and there is sitting down at desks and the mockingbird doesn't know it's Monday, he just sings because it is morning and he is alive in it.

I could say that nothing is changed, nothing is different, another same-same day here in Lloyd but somehow, it just all seems miraculous, from the way the leaves take water and sunlight and make sweet green oxygen, the way long-ago lust turned into me being here, you too, and my grandsons too.
Elvis mounts a hen, the sun makes love to the leaves, the bees make love to the phlox, the water runs from the tap, here we are.

Nations crash and burn, celebrities flash and turn, crickets hum and buzz, chickens scratch and cluck, a truck downshifts up the hill to the railroad tracks, the earth steams its moisture up into the atmosphere, I drink Cleopatra's tears, someone swims in King Solomon's piss, we take turns, each of us, being the young and strong, the old and hardly-wise, the sung and unsung, the earth is sultry this morning and she flips a petticoat and dances on looking over her shoulder to see if we caught that, to see if we are paying attention, to see if we want to dance too, our skin sticky already from heat.