Dust

The tips of the limbs outside my window drip to the ground. An insect might think it is raining. But the sky is blue, the bark warm, and the air a crisp sepulcher of sun. I know spring will come again, the day will look the same as it does outside my window. The limbs will drip dew, and the insects once alive will be dead.
Wind upon iced cheeks. Shadows spill out onto the driveway. The parked car is dead. Someone somewhere is laughing out of their brain, and the wind talks in sentences that I can never understand. I am trapped in a jar, and the world is a bunker of the great storm. Sometimes I think of winter in New York, but I fancy there is not such a place. Tennessee swims, the birds act like crickets. The trees bend and shift, and electrical wires are sending shocks into the carpet.
A jar hangs alone but stresses over the problems of the world. A basketball is rolling from never being touched,  the neighbors cat is brushing her face against the door, and the shade of the day is swirling in silence while dancing still. A voice is in the hallway, a father too far away for his words to keep, a few pennys for a smoke, and the deck is a lifeless peep hole, into a day soon wrung out.