This skull-king with its hollowed eyes is a-bumping and a-grinding through pink and green. Having chewed half the leaves of the forward tree, it's getting ready to spin a cocoon, compress its string of pearls body into the burlap sack of winter, but wait a month and a huge butterfly will unfold its gold-flecked wings wide enough, tall enough, frail enough to lift the Golden Gate above the fog.
I want to be there for the unfolding of that transparency.
Three tiny little earthquakes in Berkeley at midnight, felt only by seismographs.
We are transforming. We will evolve.