The change from one season to another is a fissure in the brain. Even the
grocery store flowers, sucking up the last of the slimy water from the thick-
rimmed vase can are not immune to changes in the atmosphere, however
minute. Throw open a window and pretend to be relatively unfettered. Reserve
judgment for those who dress for the month and not the weather. The
murmurations of starlings flying above snow in June can have a tranquilizing
effect if you listen to it for too long. Crack the egg and scramble the yolk with a
fork, starting from the center outward, like you were taught to do. The
implications of the dash of blood you see, are far reaching, but stay in the
moment. We are reminded again and again that our ancestors were bred for
brutality, for storm after storm, from battle to war. The shedding of blood, in
certain circumstances, is nothing to be ashamed of. We are only afraid of what
we might have to endure, somewhere out there alone, and without a coat to keep
us warm when no one else will. Catch us unadorned, sloganeering on the
outposts of funereal celebrations to which we were uninvited. Everyone wearing
mourning clothes is not necessarily your friend. We are told we need ritual. A
novena could summon cruelty, but that is a risk I can imagine taking. Life can be
learned even if instructions are not followed to the letter. In certain countries they
reserve praise for the rogue. In the end, there is an amulet for nearly everything.

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