Yin-yang

I swallowed the light. It was so brief, caught up in the clouds. It will come back since everything eventually comes back. In fact, tomorrow, the weather wizards are telling us. And, strangely enough, I’m going to a funeral this Saturday. Yin-yang. A 35-year-old cousin died in his bed from a heart attack. Yang-yin.

The light is a demon, the shadow its cheerful sister. They roll on the land of our souls, mate, naked and ferocious. And we absorb, leaves that fade so quickly, the sweat of their fury.