There are old houses there. Some are weathered away and the shingles broken, fallen, flaxen and frayed. Others have been redone, and sit smartly in the late summer sun under cumulus clouds and a bird, incredibly small and impossibly fast, zips by on its way somewhere else. Birds are like that, always on the way somewhere else, and live in a liminal space, a transitory mindset. Nomadic bird. Itinerant bird. Emigrated bird. Bird on a wire…but not for long, no, hey. There is an old cemetery up the large hill were the departed rest, all bones and dust, under the shaded earth. The long street down the way. Apartments atop stores, some of the stores aren’t stores but eateries. Odd people,- some are poor and use the equivalent of the mission, and its peculiar, because if you know people, societies,- just a bit,- it can be seen that these don’t walk only beside and by working class, or upper class, but are there next the affluent and super-affluent. The super affluent ones are biggest bore, - like pa-leeze, - and then as human beings go, as a rule anyways- there are exceptions as the man says, - it gets less boring from there. Well the sun is high, the clouds still like a picture, the fountain in the distance spurts water, thrown to the air by the power of a pump, motor, bearings. Once one travels through there and out the other side, - what is met with are the mundane strip plazas, the mediocre urban sprawl, and things become duller than dull. But for a moment there, before, was something, and inkling of creativity, interest, moxy, flavor, color, character, even dare one say, - poetry.
We must hold fast to that.