Poetry: Echelons of Autism1 min read

My “level” has no number; not even a name—
Because it rises and falls; twists and turns;
and every­thing is con­tin­gent on the weather:
tidal surges; ocean cur­rents; wind-shear;
ther­mo­clines; geo­mag­netic merid­ians;
the con­flu­ence of rivers over­flowing their banks.

It slides in under­neath a cold front;
hitching a ride on the lake effect;
rushing uphill, madcap on a flying fog,
above gul­lies tum­bled on their backs by the wind.

It dives down along the mir­rored edge
of a tem­per­a­ture dif­fer­en­tial;
wearing the cold cam­ou­flage of a pyc­n­o­cline,
below the white bel­lies of dis­in­ter­ested sharks.

It leans impas­sively against the tilted side
of some ancient cairn;
car­rying the bag of a lost pil­grim,
beside a broken sign-post at some unfa­miliar cross­roads.

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