When I dwell, which is often, I think to myself, Look at the hues! And I see them: fuchsia, maroon, burgundy, calling out in some lost frequency, out to me, and I shout back, and they come and settle on my skin. I am coated in them all, the hues, covered head to toe in glory and mire, at once sheer like lip-gloss and thick like mud. I am marinated in red.
And then come the birds. I stand like a statue, like a scarecrow, and they perch on me, my brothers in arms, and they begin to peck. It is then that I realize where I live and who I am. I live in the heat of the moment, in that flux of red when all is calm and not lost. And I am a prayed soul, a monument to death, a living ghost.
But the birds sing, and their song is so beautiful, so I stand there like a statue, like a scarecrow, covered in red and birds, and before I know it, the red is my flesh, my inside flesh, and the birds pluck at my sinews, my tendons, my ligaments, and they peck at my muscles, and I become an instrument to their song. A body harp. And the wind blows through it all, my hair, my plucked strings, my holes, my bones, and the horizon is so long, and the birds keep singing and I keep standing, aloft in red and song, and I open my arms to welcome and know the beauty of the moment, and nothing happens but the sun rises in spite of it all.