The path is long
there. If it’s a sixty four hectare area, like they say, - then that one path
stretches most all of it save for about 15 per cent near the end. One tree is
like a movie set tree so perfectly wrought and placed are its branches and
leaves. The others, interesting also,- scattered about, vines crawling on their
trunks, little insects flying around the leaves, the verdant grasses below, the
wild flowers.
A grasshopper
sits atop a felled tree trunk, watching. There are hundreds; I suppose
thousands of them all jumping around the rag-weed and feral bushes, the chaparral
and side pathways. The dogs begin to run and it is apparent there is an incredibly
energy
Then they rest a
bit.
And we walk
prosaically it must seem from the outside,- but inward are seeing the flowing
breezes, practically cosmic, as if coming, against reason and logic, down from
space. We survey the scene and see the little old wire fences, the vine leaves
swaying in the air, vine leaves that have crawled along the wood and wire as
far as possible and now seek what is upward
Will something come
down to reach them, to guide them, and perhaps us, - a hidden hand? A guardian?
A totem bird? A coy angel? The spirit of a coyote itself? - A rainbow, a
feather, Providence herself? - Something else?
In Rumi it says
somewhere to put down the book and read the day.
And so we have,
Rumi. We have followed the mystic master poet guide’s suggestion.
Silence. Silence
and the wind wafting something sweet across the field.
The butterflies
white and yellow come around, announcing themselves like rain drops speckling
the earth there.
It seems for moments they are following us on the long
path.
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