started the morning in a dream of bliss, flying

with the freedom of a juvenile redtail

cutting through the air so smoothly kites envied me

and the jays taught their fledglings to mimic every

move as I danced through four dimensions despite these

weird societal chains that tether mediocrity

and the million lies that swarm me like flies seeking

deficant diets. But then my dreams turned horrid

as I recalled the death yesterday of the blandest

hero history ever devised. A saint. President decades

past and nearly forgotten not due to his works,

but because his only vice was a troubled brother.

The sun rose late this morning. Ever since,

I’ve been in flight. Predatory. Flying into things.

David M Pitchford. 12/30/2024