Livre d’images sans images

My hand and tongue seem to be tied. I look up and see a face. The one that they always said was there as a child. I’m unsure why this is the first time that I’ve seen it. Watching above me all these years.

What do you see, I ask?

The world as it rotates…you staring up at me.

An odd feeling of no surprise as we spoke back and forth. Words of what volume, when I seemingly am the only one that hears. Again the sky was clear; several evenings had passed. My rays were faint, my face pale as the leaf of a water lily, torn from its stem and driven for weeks upon the water.

The inflated surround was a wonder. It was pure vulnerability - you could fall over it or cut through it as easy as pie. We were contained by will and barely anything else.

I see the patterns, I see the great plains, I see the coarse grass. I see the dark grove, I see the mist, the ice, the valley of twining willows.

The colours, the movement, the momentary.
The overflowing and the underflowing.

The bird flies to the north, an act of wind implemented against the stationary position of most oceans. Certain weather is not recognised by the land it is practised on; funnel clouds necessarily unravel or bank off any crusted terrain. For a ripple to spool downwind unobstructed it must be laced into the fur of a low-flying bird.