Evening time, the eternal dusk of seasons graduating into one another across the sky. Though the petals have long since fallen, the pink evocations of cherry blossoms still seems to linger. The color pushes through the final whisps of rainy season as a reminder. All time is contingent upon the past, seasons are cyclical. Ashes to ashes, soon there will be blistering sun.
The wings beneath my scapula lift slightly in anticipation as I zoom along side the bullet train tracks. For this instant they are not fighting to be freed through my viscera, they are free. I can take off because I have already taken the weight of my sorrows to the river and shucked them aside for the time.
All I am at this moment is motion and memory.
The air damp and chill, reminds me of the week of my arrival. I am walking down a street in the no-wheres of Narita past midnight. Amongst a haze of light rain, I lead a group of my new coworkers to a shrine, a grave yard, an ancient tree that has survived the razing or falling of it’s compatriots. The presence of this space is unsung in grandeur. The earth smells of rot.
The rain runs down the gutters and echoes.
I steer through a deep puddle and watch my own reflection as it breaks apart.