Flying On The Ground At Night In a Small Town Cemetary Is Not Scary

It was a daylit night, the clouds were stuck in a tree at the cemetery war memorial. The light was high yet shone all the way to the grass at my feet. Under my eyes, over my head. Fast above, so fast the sky had no time to think. There was a smell of night damp and fallen rain, not just summer but forever. I saw the tree outlined with sharp shape against the midnight, each branch held its angle, and there was light at every edge. Nothing strange, nothing out of place, all together there. It held me in a cold and warm embrace with smooth snagged sticky space and nothing strange, nothing out of place. Then the clouds were high, so high above the moon with its daylit night, and they flew, not like but with the wind. This was the vantage point to see them all together, over and under, beneath the ground the dead, around the sky the light, against the tree the life. Nothing strange, nothing out of place. My feet were on the ground, my head was attached, my eyes above my head. There was nothing to do, nothing to think, nothing to say, nowhere to go. All together there, it was. It still is.