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



Such Noted on the Chilly Denver Morning...

A cluster of curled and dried leaves rattle from a short, low-hanging limb of an infant, sidewalk-side tree; its support lashings swaying with the rhythm.

A rose-faced woman scrapes the frost from the windshield of a small, grey hatchback; her freshly blow-dried and frizzed hair streams across her face and stick to the preparation on her brown and upper lip.

A calico cat shoot out from an adjacent yard and scurries across an awaking avenue; he slides to a halt and scuttles under a tall, wooden fence that cordons a sleeping boat covered by a stretched, blue cover.

A car starts-up down the way.
A school bus rounds the corner.
A breeze disrupts the stillness of a hanging real estate sign.
A trail of thin smoke strings-up from a narrow, rooftop chimney.

A man stand on his front lawn and dusts ice crystals from the plastic bag containing his newspaper; he opens the bag and grimaces at the headline as he turns back towards his opened front door.

A ribbon of steam wafts from the mouth of a coffee mug sitting atop a moving navy blue minivan; the driver grips the wheel and aims her eyes in the direction of morning sun.

These are valuable particles of life's observations often placed aside in exchange for drivel and inconsequential elements of no benefit.


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