Thursday, July 7, 2016


That one-lane highway runs fast and long and at night, it is difficult to discern what is what. There are many sides streets and concession roads. The days are bright and the fields juxtapose or foil one another as some exclaim verdant moods whilst others are flaxen, almost brightly flaxen and can blind the gaze. But all in all they are spacious, vast. Sometimes a bird is far off and it’s not easy to tell if it be a hawk, a dove, a black bird, or other. It glides across the sky and I remember the ships, impossibly large vessels that used to go across the horizon line in the Atlantic sub tropical sea. Old barns, some faded, some not, wait at attention, and there are at times cows, at others corn, and still at others coyotes. There are the ``coy`` coyotes, - waiting at the edges of loams. If I stop to look at them they sense and see me both- and go back and back, far and far. They are bit craven, cowardly even, - but I love them so. A trickster animal, a motif, a dream, a wind, a spry and knowing vigil to what is just, just, just a bit unseen out of the corner of the eye and mind, spirit and soul. Coyote, - yes coyote knows almost always. Gnostic coyote! Perhaps it is wise to be cautious, after all, - there are many more other animals that meet tragedy by the thunderous asphalt way. 
Oh the biggest thing is the dusk and late dusk and night. People should study the dusk- it has its own moods and flavors- even secrets. It comes in like a bit of ink, spreads itself far and wide- and lets the electrical lights to appear- on roller coasters in the country side, on the strip plaza signs in lots. Suddenly the steel railings can be seen and the coaster heard, - the wheels against the infrastructure of the ride. Distant yells- from the stomach- from those root type chakras! - And then it’s gone again and the large silhouetted rails stand and wait in the purple-blue-pink-red and even orange hued sky. There are some clouds, and a bit of rain. The night wind announces itself and comes across from the somewhere invisible, as if it was borne out of an astral story and now has found a way to live. Traffic in the distance. Then even that subsides. A plane goes past incredibly high and far. Silent. It’s the summer and people sit on the small summits talking, looking, snapping pictures of themselves and the electrical night. A priest should give an exegesis on the scripture of the July nights. 

So much is writ in the sand and moon, in the dirt and clapboard, in the breeze and especially in the silence.


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