The mushrooms take effect. The ripples in the little creek no longer appearing as twinkling textures reflecting the early summer light, but layers of liquid pressure reorganizing themselves in accordance with gravity and surface tension. Those countless echelons of moving and expanding geometry redividing and shattering through endless collisions and absorptions, and lock my mind. I freeze. My vision a cloud of physical features evolving into raw mathematical permutations, until these numbers overwhelm me… and I laugh.
Bemused by my limitations and the finite resolution of my internal computations, I breath deep, pulling in scented currents of air that wash over my tongue.
A small black bird lands near by and his glossy black eyes look into mine. He seems to see something there. His sclera the color of unconsciousness hide his pupils, until I hold his gaze and I realize that he doesn’t suffer sclera but rather, his eye, the entirety of is his pupil. The small black bird nods and I feel like I have learn a truth that will somehow serve me well for the rest of my life.
A man on a bicycle, bubbles his way down a path that he is uncomfortable riding down, comes into view. His bicycle shorts at too small for the shifting cargo, those layers of long earned flesh, at the small of his back. His helmet is ill fitting and jostles as his wheels shift over uneven ground. His face is near purple with effort and his mouth billows air as if feeding the furnace of determination he has installed in his chest. His legs a pale in a way the conveys wide swaths of winter sleep and disdain for the cold days. His arms twitch to keep the bicycle balanced the muscles wrapping around them look small and strained under liver spotted skin.
I look to the blackbird who turns to me and laughs. I don’t joint him. He shrugs and flies away. A lesson for another day.
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