10.

In the calm after a storm — or perhaps between blowings of it — I hear the voice of the buzzard, high, & look out through the double glazing at the blue morning, the dark barn caught upside down in every drop upon the glass — all things I can believe because I don’t have to. I think of working in the storm, snatching up armfuls of hay for the horses & trapping it on the wheelbarrow with the pitchfork so the wind doesn’t rip it right away — cold hard rain smacking my back as I carry it to them — I am harried & cursing but at some point I will laugh with the wildness of it all, realise I am not not enjoying myself. I think of donning my spacesuit & going out through the airlock to do something a drone should probably do, seeing a slow spiral of cloud spinning over the earth down below, syncing with the generative ambient techno I play to cover my anxiety-triggering tinnitus: free of the planet’s surface & feeling more shut in than ever. Part of the old ruin comes tumbling down, a great noise & a rush of hooves as liquified everything smashes all at once into the window. Bulletproof glass & then some, crystal-balled controller of nothing speaking sweet nothings to their psychedelic houseplants as the universal gyroscope readjusts to another pancentral perturbation. Come in birdsong do you read me? This is yard wren one sir, ready to fire in sparrowchirp — three — two — one!