Sunday, July 12, 2020


Out in the pre dawn hours I look for the comet Neowise.

Neowise, neowise, Neo the wise comet. It should be out there in the sky. Maybe. If only it weren't washed out in the vast nightlights of the city. If only the trees didn't obscure the horizon. Instead of comets though, people, or mythological animals, yes, surely it is mythological animals, small gods out there at this hour, are down on the river setting off fireworks. They don't have the really good ones, the expensive ones that fly high into the air to burst. Theirs cannot clear the trees and don't make much noise. I see them flashing and burning deep in the heart of the shore. These are secret fireworks, for themselves,  all the possums and skunks and rabbits and squirrels, convoking on their hind legs, festooned with feathers and beads and foil decorations, prancing and chanting and weaving spells. They are chanting for Neowise. They are casting the spell of Neowise.

Finally, thanks to their cavorting, at three in the morning the city is wild again. 

I'm not sure I can sleep anymore and I start writing a blogpost in my head. I don't remember what it was. It wasn't this. Something poetic that ended condemning poetry. But instead of sitting down to write it I went to bed. I don't have anything against poetry, and it doesn't have anything against me.

In a week or two Neowise will be in the evening sky.  The possums will have danced away the last of the Spring ticks. The pandemic will end. Dictators will fall across the world. Flowers you have never seen will start flourishing in the salted ground.

And you will receive a mysterious feather in the mail.

Do with it what you will.

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