All the children and all the bugs

As the sun was setting the children were swinging across the brick street and a swarm of the tiniest flies erupted from a trash bag when my fingers grazed it. The cicadas are the loudest, singing in their outdoor church.

I am in a church where a prayer of beauty is said every morning and the windows do not open but let in all the light in the city. The doors do not want to lock and the table or floor is slanting at the corners.
Make noise for this -- the children and the bugs. The runes, the choir.

I sit in a mandala in the morning. The children are arriving to swing and sing for the bugs. i say thank you for the dappled things. The car we drive is swift and stable. the wind is pushing my hair, swinging it to the right.

I want to sing a song for you and me in the wind so it carries it back-- so it sticks to the wings of the bugs in the wind and trips over the brick roads and the train horns all the way home.

I'm sinking in to the droning sounds of storm cellars, being a brindled child myself. I'm doing yoga to death metal, crying to old time bluegrass.