Whirling and Gadding

A quail blue morning, the man in the hat in pantaloons with folded-over cuffs and a wool muffler, bicycle chain grease and blacking, morning’s yellow sickness. There are lungfish in the sky, thought the man in the hat, a creel basketful. The sky danced; a whirl of dervishes on PCP and Lithium, a hoedown, a crisscross, a billet en masse. This is all so strange, this dancing and whirling and gadding about, clowns, a strongman and a cote of little people, all these misshapen heads and caulks of hair, too much for one person to take in so early in the day, too much indeed, so he mused. Perhaps the sky will fall careening into my head, where cowlick crisscrosses parting, Brill and comb scratches, an unsightly mussing, all that dancing and whirling and gadding about with neither rhyme nor reason, all this larking and tithing, oh my, oh my indeed.