That bag of snakes

There’s a fog this morning

Warm air bumping into cold

The greater atmospherics

Out of my control

I simply woke into this day

Running along

Becoming gently soaked

The next metre or so

Barely discernible

In ayurvedic medicine there is a correlation

Between the conditions within

And the conditions without

I believe this

And wonder

What clears the internal fog?

It is not thinking

That is certain

Attention to thought is like turning on a smoke machine

Bellowing grey

To fill the corners of the mind

There is no food or magic elixir

That helps

Instead it is almost a requirement to step outside of self

Outside of this spinning never stop thought built universe

Discard it like a suit

Crumpled on the ground

My wraith like attention gone wandering

To commune with the stars

The rocks

The small parrots nesting in a hollowed out fence post in the gully