The old path at
the end of the forest that leads out the circular way. The main part is parched
from the sun and from passengers’ feet. Even though the temperature had dropped
somewhat, the bright morning star made its way and rose the degrees up and up
once more. Sometimes a cool breeze might come and sounds like the ocean. But
the ocean is far away. The Atlantic must still be there, with its dangerous
blue jellyfish, with the piers racing out to the horizon, failing, but failing
beautifully.
No animals are
around and no signs of anything like that save for the large heron that
suddenly flies overhead. Where it shall alight, nobody around there knows.
Quiet. Silent then. And soon the wildflowers can be seen. A wasp, busy as a bee,
- hee hee-, is at work, foraging for what it needs, - one petal to the next,
and then he is gone into the thick green tree beyond. Clouds
still in the sky,
as if in a painting. When will the rains come? At times, the sky in places does
seem dense and that it promises things like precipitation. What dreams shall we
have in the night storms?
Until then, we
wait…
An old bike sits
sometimes by Hibiscus and sometimes by the Mulberry. The world spins.
The
wheels sit still but sometimes spin. The wheel of fortune itself spins, the
dharma wheel, the cosmic ball bearings. But nothing really spins too much- it
happens in silence. We are all on the path. Marga is the path. Or, more
properly, we could say- The Path. The
forest, the wasp, the big bird silhouetted against the deep blue sky and
cumulus clouds. The bike, its paint and chrome, oil and wheels. The bubbling
water fountain. People. Crickets. The lapping waves of the Atlantic, - now
unseen save for in the imagination. And the berries from the trees, the trees,
the red flowers with yellow. So many, many things.
What dreams
might the night storms bring?
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