We all struggle, don’t we. We all stare at the same sky, looking as if the clouds are rushing by when it is us who spin. Turning in the widening gyre, the falcon sees us as we are. Specs on the glass of time, racing by and out of sight, smaller and smaller as we go. Waiting for the brush of time to paint over us.

All the machinery in the world could not alter our fate, no lever could pry the stars so aligned. Perhaps it was not my place to heed such warnings, and have passed, by pure nature, that curse to those I love. Touched across time, budged by cosmic levers too small to be seen, too many to be controlled. A kiss of death, laid upon the baby’s forehead like a half digested grenade.