Silence broken by
the hushed hum of the fridge,
the shrill whine of a circular saw splitting wood,
the occasional sounding of a car horn.
In French it’s called klaxon
and it makes me giggle a little.
I’m tired and feel slightly off,
like barely curdled milk or overripe fruit
with the pip splitting open from the centre out.
My insides are roiling in protest at the one too many
scoops of hot salsa or the extra glass of rosé I shouldn’t have had,
or something else that I just haven’t quite figured out.
A nondescript bug.
I feel I’ve accomplished much, though, these last few weeks.
Sorting and organizing always cheers me;
it recategorizes possibilities,
resets my creativity button,
I’m finding I have a lot of stuff I don’t use anymore,
things I thought essential to my creative process
which now merely clutter up the pipeline.
I’m plugging away slowly at unplugging.
Seems my body is mirroring the process.
And now to rest,
as the sound of a plane engine
scrapes across the sky.