Words fill pages like black dogs frozen solid while chasing white cats, like bees dissolving in fresh milk, like a flock of birds spraying themselves against a snowscape sky.
Consider this, from a distance, the commonest sorrow looks like a bearded old man strolling with his wife in a foggy swale. Draw nearer to this and the man is a smoke-wrapped refugee angrily bludgeoning another man with riverwash.
Somewhere, perspective falters. The words themselves begin to dance, to clatter right there as if iron implements dropped against slate. On another day, the words might writhe free as softer, yet more lethal things.
Somewhere, a tired old man walks his black dog along a riverwash bottom and chases up a flock of birds that spray against a snowscape sky. Somewhere, words are implementing fertile ideas that will, on a brighter day, become white birds unfreezing from a black swale.
--Mitchell Hegman
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