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



Dry Grass Mornings in September...


























No further days, distant from this morning, shall stand equal to what my eyes now hold.

Getting up.
Adjusting the sprinkler.
Talking for close to fifteen minutes about grapes and elms and pastures.

I ask for concurance and turn to find her asleep and dreaming within, well past the line of shade and sunlit grass.

The field insects chirp.
The breeze moves the tree branches.
A trio of birds flutter across the skyline.

I hold a hand up and shelter my eyes from the sun as I watch them pass.

...My God.

The sprinkler taps softly along, claps once and shutters back resetting itself in it's constant cycle.
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