The
line of the lake curves inward and the houses there watch the water and the
island beyond. The island is a mystery from there perhaps only because it is
far off. Since it is autumn, the trees show red and brown, orange and yellow,
and of course there is still some green. The overcast skies come down and wait
around there, whist a boat, silver and old, - turn out from a docking area and
heads in the direction of the island. The birds, black, come past. One alights
on a wooden bench. He is apart from the crowd, and rests, waits. He stays there
an incredibly long time, and there does not seem to be much of anything in the way
of food that he is eyeing. Maybe he is a totem, a vision of some sort, or at
the least a sign. It’s wondered what the world, in fast forwarded film, looks
like there. The sky turning all colors, and the earth becoming day, night, and
day once more. The birds, the odd coyote that comes during the twilight on his
way back from somewhere. Spirits devas, sprites, others. Ghosts/phantoms/spectres.
The weather, a bit coldish then, has put people and animals back into their
places, the dwellings and abodes. Gone are the high sun and blue sky summer
days, - the laughter and easy movements of those. This is something new. The
leaves tumble over dirty pebbles and stones. There is a public part of the
shore, - un-kept and dishevelled stones and breaks, weeds and feral grasses and
vines grow through the broken parts of what was once a smart and curt and long
parapet. There is something lurid here, but against reason and logic, it is a
good sweet luridness. Let the vision and feeling go into it, - to feel what
they call the entire present zeitgeist of the shore, - its atmosphere of
sadness and witnessing. The little whitecaps roll up, almost given up. There is
not even a frog or snake, and the bees and hornets that announce themselves act
a bit vexatious, and bite, - rather sting they call it of course, - and perhaps
it is out of fear of death and the loss of home and summer. They sense the
death descent. Still, it’s queer, because their jackets and sounds and
movements are still beautiful. Peculiar how their late flying and living can
still inspire. Go insect, go bee, go waspy wasp. And the lonesome boat bobs a
bit in the distance. The recent storms have washed away the spiders’ webs.
Where have they gone? You thought you didn’t like the spider, - but you missed
him when he was gone. It’s quiet there. Some abrupt and vulgar motorcycles come
past and shake the earth. Ego. Greed. No care for the people nevermind the
animals or insects. And imagine them thinking of the atmosphere, the waves that
want to lap? They soon go. There is an old marina, and an aged store. The world
seems abandoned. Not even a proverbial grey haired man, sagacious, slow but
delicately walking, appears. No, it’s just a line of the lake that curves
inward and the houses, a bit dirty for the dirt and mud thrown up somehow in
the storms, watch the water and the strange autumnal island beyond.
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