And if
it rains the rains the night storms can smash against the glass and the
outsides of the panes, the redbrick and the rest, eventually making its way
down to dying flowers and shrubs or the grasses and bricks that will be covered
with late October leaves and eventually with snow. The record shop is out
there, the albums soulful and diverse, and other Sunday rain-soaked things
include the tops of storms and streets where the effluent water goes down and
down slopes until it circles gratings and then drops lower into the dark vacuum
abyss of the underground infrastructures.
We were
thinking of old Sundays like that, the memory brought back through the records
themselves or at the least the idea of them. Books, the pages a bit yellowed,
and the old used bookstore long closed down and gone off into a memory. The
coyote that was seen in the verdant but still urban area, - near the tops of
summits where Pine trees grow. Those trees, once so small, have determined to
take their vitamins and sun over the years,- and perhaps the roots have dug as
far into the soul of the soil as the branches have clung against odds to the
air and reached for the clouds year in and out.
And what
else? What else is there? Deep in the tavern but over coffee there is talk of
dreams that speak of premonitions both dangerous and new. Maybe also the second
body comes out before sleep and looks around the room, - proof of some kind of
afterlife. Yet,- these things are not to be caught up in and are if anything
even a hindrance on the way to what is considered to be enlightenment,
awakening, moksha, nirvana, freedom, the end of suffering. So we stay in the
atmosphere of the Sunday rain. Like a great writer said somewhere, One world at
a time.
And what
of the world? It has beads and feathers, streets and chimneys and an old
secreted
But for
now, - the proverbial middle path has to be tread, so I walk on.
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