THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



Foregoing the Parching Winds...

It is still after the rainfall, a heavy one that stuck around throughout the early morning and well past noon. It left patterns in the grass and dirt, an exact footprint replication of the barn as sheets of sky-felled water cascaded down the troughs of its galvanized roof. A cold front lingers; the new, spring insects are motionless; and, snakes hide away dreaming of summer days forthcoming.

Oh, but for the redness of the Chinese maple tree! It's leaves are fiery and only amplified when tens of millions of droplets skate upon their waxy faces. Twelve hours of life-giving rainfall, yet fragments of earth remain untouched and dry, concealed by the maple's outstretched wings.

Footsteps are hushed in the wet leaves decaying. A break in the rain ceases all sound, save for the wooded acres, where the leaves of countless species continue to exchange droplets with their inferior. It is constant, unceasing, well after the rains become silent in the meadows, and it will continue until the dry winds from the south west parch them once again.

Nearest it all, with glossy pavements and wet fiery reds as the backdrop, she is there dancing. With hair down and feet bare, she is breathing words into the humid afternoon.

Bad love comes and goes; great love in guaranteed to all who understand that...
all
of
this
is
finite.

No comments:

Post a Comment