The Art of Dying
And its not just because I'm typing this while driving a South Texas country road surrounded by the green springtime carpeting both sides, abundantly riotous wildflowers, radio tuned to the old timey gospel AM station out of Corpus Christi.
God of sight, God of sound, close harmonies sing the wild cycle of nature, bursting through vacuums of hybernated flesh, through the nonstop history, partaking my brief slice of the eternal WTF, nothing ever harnessed, nothing no matter what.
Nothing clever will taste immortality, either.
Driving this same road drunk, six springs ago, can of Shiner Bock in my lap, the blinding late day sun setting in my face, when the cell phone bleeped, interrupting reveries along the lonely road.
= Mom's dead.