It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
The mind always returns to the innocuous things first.
The soft tolling of bells from a distant church;
the laughter of children fractured on the wind;
the flash of the sun as it sets in the west.
All is quiet now, though I remember the birds
weaving bright colors through my thoughts within.

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
The glow of city lights beneath the pinprick stars;
the texture of the air changing as the fog creeps in;
the muffled clunk of boats abandoned on the dock;
the lonesome hoot of an owl unseen in the dark;
the broken tinkle of chimes twisting in the wind;
my thoughts turning inward as fatigue sets in.

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
The ashes thrown up to hover above
surrender themselves to entropy.
The burning flakes floating up from the heat
grow brighter as they scatter in the wind.
There’s a false dawn in the east as the crackling increases,
and I lay here, still failing to sleep.

It always starts slowly, minute and imperceptible.
Their caws heard on the drifting breeze
sound way too much like laughter to me.
I try clenching my fists against the fire in my skin,
but can’t stop my thoughts floating away like dust.
Their shadows grow longer as the night encroaches,
flapping wings just visible against the fading light of dusk.

(Bryan Garaventa, 2020)