There
is something about the sky there, or just south of there, where the even the
telephone poles have a certain beauty in the early evening. The sun, out of
sight then, but letting its sparks arc across the world, lighting the sky a
blue that is at turns light pastel matted and real dark glossy. There is a
Christmas tree farm ‘round the bend, and its peculiar to see the signage
denoting such when it is late August or September. Nobody thinks on that, and
not many have to…that the trees have to grown, have to come into their certain
robustness and verdant ways. All this out there in the North, more away from
say, a city, with its snide self, with its secularism, with its almost utterly
false paradigm. We are searching here, - for the spirit of Thoreau, or Emerson,
or Rumi, - and surely our line will pale drastically in comparison to anything
like that, - but Osho said it is better to try for a dream…
Well
the way is labyrinthine and meandering once we enter the forest. The cry of
birds lets itself out from some dark distant tavern or den. There is a car,
impossibly old, the shell, the skeletal car I call it. Beyond that, not far, -
the coyotes come to watch curiously. They circle around, - we are too big for
them, - but still, we are different sight that has ventured near their home if
the collective and individual soul of earth coyotes could be said to have a
home. Even when they do, I think of them as more itinerant. Some butterflies
are still there, yellow and white, a few wild flowers that have not yet
deceased. What else? - The valley, lone and long and deep and full of mysteries
and shadows, odd animal sounds, - vines, chaparral, bark, logs, birch, spiders,
snakes, rabbits, squirrels, et al.
And
the dogs,-we land soon enough in an open series of fields if a field can be circular.
There are tractors, old relics rusted, - in the middle, and some tree whose
branches hover over them like fingers from something like The Brothers Grimm. A
solitary bee still buzzing, alights on a flower yellow. The two dogs begin to
run along the sandpit, under its ridges, above and on the topmost parts, down
and up, everywhere. I hear the earth being pounded as if they are not two dogs
but numerous horses feral in the world and in their spirits. I stand back for
long moments and know after that through some circumstance and grace, there
were moments of no-thought. What does it mean? The viewer, watcher, walker, -
the I, the looker, the seeker, - was absent. Why? Because a certain breeze
mixed with some other overcast air and the energy of the early hint of autumnal
atmosphere was large, and like that earlier mentioned blue sky, had for its strange
beauty, combined with the running of the
dogs,- rightly overtaken myself and had become the scene.
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