Scratching around on the hard ground, the effusive flow of heat and ignition takes the red of the moment up three. Down one and back again on five, across two to meet the six tricks. Where the look of love is a glance toward the sun and behind it, a shadow casts itself upon the feet of those facing south.
For those of no strict direction, that can be observed by the cross hairs, are remarkable in forming a collection of their attention.
Not toward the north, not toward the east, certainly not toward the west. The south, the south, the south, It's easier after all, the droop of their stoops taking gravity's hand to force them into a comfort zone of relaxation and reverence.
One falls forward on the back heel and they all fall in line.
Written on Wednesday, 1 November 2006