Tasting of old ice cubes, cloaked in the colour of a wordless poem, like a watercolour that peeled away from its canvas, the morning draped itself on the inscrutable contours of the earth’s visage.
Was this morning so far away that even thoughts, worming away at tangents, could not find it? Had the primal ensemble of nature’s orchestra been hushed by the motionless hand of an invisible conductor? Had perpetuity wandered into a freeze frame at the edge of all impossibility?
Or is so much happening, at such a feverish pace -this monochrome churn of sensations and emotions, of predator and prey, of dawn and night, of life and death- all tumbling through the void at intolerable speed, that the numbed mind can barely comprehend any movement?
hears the water breathe
eyes see what they seek