A Kite Alone

Musing on the introspective quality we all, as writers, share.

Today, Google chewed out a relatively interesting fact.
Emus and Kangaroos cannot walk backwards, apparently.
It has never occurred to me to walk backwards.
But today, perhaps I might.
What a peculiar little fellow I might seem like,
cut adrift, an ownerless kite.
To be blundering backwards, through these teeming streets
which throng with the horde, the forward moving herd.
(Don't mistake this for derision.)
Now my musing little noggin' interjects, you've always been
moving backwards in someway, one apart from the crowd.
Not just today.
The storm in motion.
The sullen potion.
The sunken eyes.
The depths I despise.
But walking backwards is its own gift I guess,
from the tumult of life, I seem to regress. To claim a patient
minute, to sit and observe,
the obscene beauty of this spinning Earth (crowd and all)
is absurd.