There is gray, I know made from too many things. It happens as each color turns to fall in the colder (prediction) Not as dumb luck thinks blindness and black are one But more like night, distantly surrounded by a clarity of voices. First - Colors transfixed by the sun hum immobile yet vibrant when looking with the eye: the yellow dot of a dandelion flat on a brown dirt plane Second - Regalia shouldered piled on with shovels against the hint of stalking beasts, regalia lifting imaginatively self's great sky like a white winged animal spirit birthed underwater from a crown wishing to feed and roost Third - Orbits know nothing of day and night forever locked in their occasionally perturbed circles Fourth - Light is best in transition between day, night with shadows accentuating angles enhancing the most familiar dandelions This happens as each color turns to fall in the colder (prediction). Time bends in loops like clowns crafting rubber balloon sculptures for clapping kids. In the gray that only knows itself through the accident of strangers Who could always use just a little more and then... Or kept rigidly denied just for the hell of reinforcing a struggle that never wins. For who can hear what came before everything was new? Black is the combination even washed, filtered into gray clear as words through time that seeds blow upon wind, seen only in the light of midnight by those far outdoors, past bedtime while the children sleep within.