adapted for flight

It could be the weather.

Yet I like the quietness that comes with gray. I like the muted tones that are cast onto houses, faces, feet.

So maybe it's not the weather.

It could be the scene.

Yet I like so many people involved in the "scene." They are some of the most brilliant, troubled, electrifying people I know.

So. Perhaps it's not that, either.

Is it possible that it's lack of sleep and certain nutrients?

I guess.

More more likely it is just me.

It is my view, my perspective, my unwillingness to let certain things go. It is my inner critic, my self-loathing, my death grip on the ego. It is me forgetting the earth. It is me forgetting the way birds meticulously build their nests, not just for themselves, but for those they will love and eventually grieve. It is me forgetting the striking solitude of the mountain peak. It is me forgetting the sunrise, the sky, the way the Osprey flies, like a messenger, but the only message is his hollow boned flight.