We are so quick to jump to conclusions. So loathe to be blamed. We wring our hands, stamp our feet. We look out the window at the burning trees, and then go to the kitchen to pour ourselves a glass of water. We pick different windows. Different views. They might always be the same. We might just be telling ourselves that they are different. We pick up a bit of crumpled paper. We smooth it, inspect both sides. Unsatisfied with what we find there, we fling it to the ground, and march to the next room. There will always be more bits of paper. Conclusions are easy to come by. Who was it? Who said that beginnings are hard? The finger points, and having pointed, moves on. But we can feel the indentation in our chests for weeks to come. We finger it tenderly as we stand at the window. The leaves blow up and disappear. The night sky sparks, showers. There will always be sirens and screaming children and barking dogs. There will always be people in distress. We fill our glasses with water or whiskey and face window after window.
song: “Monkeys on the Moon” by Sopwith Camel
