The day began with a hero
saving an albatross in the weeds.

She was a prodigy
of predicting end-times,
though thunderstorms were always a surprise.

Before the days of needing forgiveness,
she danced in the grass
near powerful men
sitting in lawn chairs,
balancing cups on knees
and cigars between teeth,
planning the world
like a beautiful mushrooming explosion.

She vowed to ask the next albatross
where it was going before saving it.

There are dreams
nobody will ever know,
regarding cinnamon
and roses and toasty hands
in places of comfort,
of hidden crowds listening,
of a place where time
is a relic and love is like water,
where flight hurts
like winning.

How did he strum
while walking
even in dark alleys
with shades and a large belt buckle
that heralded battles
nobody won,
with serpentine grace
and fangs barely buried,
hands made to stay sure and dirty,
a tilt of the head
that spelled insolence
and cleansing fire?