Lost birds we call stars
Flitting by across horizons spire
Flame and fire
Become their being
The picture my eyes rest on
a thrumming splinter it has carried on
Echo this cry, it must be joy
Connected to infinite, infinite smiling eyes
Watching, waiting
I release anticipation
While 2016 marked a period of consistent and disciplined composition, Byron November’s current work emerges only when the ‘fancy hits him,’ resulting in rare, high-intensity fragments that capture specific, fleeting moods. Based in South Africa, his creative output has shifted from constant practice to a ‘once in a blue moon’ cadence, trading sheer volume for a sharpened, visceral precision.