THREE HORSES IN THE DAY

Beyond some long white stretches of fence, slightly weathered with interesting cracks and shades, but still bright for the light of the sun, stood three horses in the day. They were all dark of hair, and relaxed. As they languidly grazed upon the ground, a silent jet came past in the Northern distance. They did not notice. Those old horses were good folks. They did not fight, argue, or wrestle with ideas. They just walked around, lounged around. Their manes shone in the sun, and their legs, strong and knowing, met the earth with just the right angle. Sometimes a bit of wind would blow some hair up and this hair on their heads would dance itself over, the blue and white sky beyond as a background. I stood and watched from the gravel road, a long one lane highway with vexatious trucks that barrel through night and day. But still, those trucks are all part and parcel of it. 

A long time ago, there was a white horse, with black markings. It was in a bag, a plastic bag, -

and I carted out the bag and brought out the horse. One day one of the back legs broke off, and you could see into the horse. But, the horse was still the horse, - kind, silent, and strong, - full of a certain prowess. I think I walked the horse over couches, along desks, down along carpets and on great wide sills where aloe vera plants sat receiving the summer sun. To think, to think, to think, - that it’s the same sun now that shines down upon those horses. Vroom, a truck goes past, - but the horses don’t bother, don’t startle. I keep looking, flashed a picture, then another frame, and move quietly around, try to feel the air,- some knowledge or wisdom in the air, the ground, the sun, the sides of old abode in the distance. I can’t sense much. There is something about the horses though.

A very old man once told me stories. He said that there was a horse ranch, and someone was

stealing the horses late at the night. So, the owner stayed up and watched, under the moon, under the starry firmament, under the gaze of the old sagacious owl. And sure enough, - the thief came along, and jumped the fence, - maybe a fence like this one- this white fence. Maybe it was this very fence in fact! - One never knows. Perhaps just as the light of the sun shines on it in the day, the illumined and illuminating moon shone on it then, - and there is a chance it was a new fence, and a new moon. The thief guided the horses out, a couple, to his friend on the other side, opening the gate down the way. But the owner confronted them and they spoke, - they talked it out. (The storyteller was a peaceful person and this was projected in his stories). As it turned out, - the thieves though doing a bad act, were not harmful or evil persons. Something had happened on their ranch, and they needed the horses. So, the owner gave them a few horses and everybody went on their way. (Cormac McCarthy would not like this story but that is the way it was told).

Well, I sat there with my own plastic horse, the drapes heavy with a good dark thread count and the strong and sure afternoon ray streaming in like laser beams. Which brings one back to the sun. It was high, so high in the afternoon’s sky. One of the horses, the closest one, brought up its head and looked upon me. We stared at one another briefly, but he was somehow older, calmer, and more mature. He knew something. I looked down, and stepped back, towards the long asphalt way. From the gravel shoulder on the side I hopped up into the driver’s seat and made my way away leaving the three friends to their routine.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

POST NUMBER 123, WHERE SILOS CATCH THE SUN (SIMPLY ON MY WAY BACK FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE)

The antique shop is still there after all these years. Across the way from it the farmer let out his cows, black and white ones, and they walked down a short hillside, out from their dwelling, two or three at a time. Then, the group, perhaps twenty or twenty five, stood out there under the sun, the blue sky, the white clouds intermittently placed by some unseen hand here and there in the air. On the way in, is a small road, and there is some large metal piece of something in the ground that they have not fixed. The vehicles have to go over this, - and as I looked closely, I could tell that a tire could be punctured. Why on God’s green earth, when surrounded by farmers, rural types, all the dirt in the world, would someone not cover that up for safety reasons. It would take about ten minutes. People are odd. Mindsets are peculiar. 

 

Well, I went very, very slowly and stayed to the side, so hopefully the tires are okay. I wondered why the car coming out was waiting, was so hesitant. Now I know. In any event,- the large aisles are still there,- all the items privately owned, stored, priced, and then sold, if ever sold,- like a flea market. There are old cameras, pictures and paintings, albums, chairs, tables. Dozens and dozens of books, records, playing cards, candle holders. All the old kitsch and bric a brac in the world seems to live there, - you name it, - and they have it. It’s cool in there, in both ways. The temperature is cool and they have industrial fans, cement flooring, and lots of shade. Plus, - it’s cool because you can see an oar, a mirror, a lawn mower, a necklace, an anything, - from fifty or more years ago! I took a picture of an old sewing machine, and one of a gas can. I didn’t buy anything, - because wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was simply on my way back from somewhere else. But I strolled around twice. The workers don’t come out far from their front stall/office. There is only me and the one or two other strangers looking around at the treasures. Treasures to some, junk to others. Depends on what kind of an eye and spirit you have. If there are spirits by the way, - that affix themselves, malevolently or benevolently, to objects and artifacts, - they are there if anywhere! 

Outside again and the light is bright! We found a stray cat around that area once and kept him on. Naturally a farm cat, he liked to be outside. I look at the place briefly that he came up to our van begging for food in the autumn. It’s like a dream now. Up and around and the sky, fields, green and gold mixed, depending where you look, - are vast, - evocative. I take in the pastoral scene, and slowly make my way. The cows are still there and silos catch the sun then glint as if winking. Its silent, then the sound of traffic. Silent again. Car. Nothing. Fierce truck barrelling down. Quiet. A hawk in the distance makes of itself a silhouette against the sky. I go down the long gravel and asphalt way and stop to look at the crumby and slightly dangerous piece of metal that is inside of the ground. I surmise its best to go left when I go, as that’s where it looks most level, - less tooth-like. I take a frame of the sign that says ANTIQUES, and hop back in, still squinting a bit from the bright natural summer light. 

-----------------------------------------------------

YELLOW AND RED IN BROWN ALL UNDER BLUE AND WHITE BY GREEN

The Hibiscus plants blossomed and then wilted, blossomed and then wilted. You had to accept the moment when the flowers fell off, just had to, - for that was nature and also it was making way for new flowers. Imagine what is in pots and under the earth! - The myriad spiders and ants, the orchestrations of bizarre labyrinthine pathways. The whole reality is there to watch and sometimes the oppressive heat lets up for long moments and its more than okay. I have for the time being seen the late night radio shows about the paranormal, and the crystal shops, - and the even the advaita Vedanta types, - and they are all appearing a bit crazy, - too self involved. Then, on the other hand, there are the orthodox ones- every-day ones, - and they have not the artistic endeavors, the creativity, or anything like that-they are simply a ‘hive mind’. We are left with the purple wildflowers, the hovering bees, - the barking canines beautifully in the moment, - with the night rains and thunder storms like the romantic poets they taught about in high school. We are left with the Hibiscus plant in the sun. Look, it has made a pact to blossom again! Its promissory note is written in the soil and stem, in the succulent soft song of the afternoon, in the savory seed, in the sacrosanct morning sun... 

---------------------------------------- 

THE HAY OF THE FIELDS AND THE BERRIES OF THE FOREST

The sky was overcast and so the sun hidden. But still, out in the forests, covered by blankets of clouds and the tree tops with their summer leaves, the berries seemed bright, so full they were. There wild red berries and also raspberries,- and just when you thought they were done with, a flurry of more would announce themselves just around a bend or corner. There was a nice mixture of sand, gravel, rocks, pebbles, and wild grasses for the foot to settle on, to walk on, to turn on. No hawks, but lots of small birds, and the spring and early wildflowers have wilted, been replaced by other, more feral seeming shrubs and growths, and I don’t know any of their names but admire them so nonetheless. 

 

On the streets, there are farms to either side, and tall silver silos that wait out the rain and the sun both, the ice and snow, the autumnal winds, nights, days, and everything else. They have wound up the hay into circular stacks, and each one looks like a little planet in a flaxen and still solar system frozen in the summer afternoon. Little flies buzz about. Some bees. We heard a horse in the distance, neighing, and yet did not see one or more. Maybe it was the spirit, a spirit. Who is to know for sure? And the temperature rises a few degrees while the cool breezes subside,- we

all dust off the sights and little insects, the sounds and such. We have made the rounds again and its time to head back home. 

--------------------------------------

BOOKS PHANTOM AND SEPTEMBER’S PURPLE PLUMS

An old row of books, and the thought of black iron railings where the full purple plum trees present their bounty in Septembers. The tall rooftops sloping down where later the snow will blow off and wind will carry it around in large ovals until it splashes down on plastic pool coverings and water bags. Behind,- ghosts fly around the night, a night thick with leaves dead, with invisible Pines, with hills, houses where hearths wait inside, with the sounds of that wind all ‘round. The books, they rest upon shelves. Inside stories of adventure, crime, far off lands, treasures, intrigues. All the bricks of the house and the spirit of the departed one, a boy that came and looked for help from the astral plane. I could not help him, and panicked. At times like that

the books hardly help. He motioned to please not be upset, - and then eventually flew out the room, down the stairs, following the contour, which was not really a contour but an L-shaped stairway, - and disappeared right through the front door. How real the spectres, the phantoms, are. How real. Well the ravine is there, and the streets with the air-brakes of buses. Curt and smartly kept boulevards. Everything is the same, but oh so different. And the books- all the same, - but the world is different. A person could remember the plums of September, - or the magic of words, the flickering and flipping of the pages somehow like the flickering of a candle’s flame. Where are the books? Where is the spirit boy?

 

Where is the past?

----------------------------------------------