DAY DUSK AND NIGHT
Shaded
in there. Nobody on the outskirts in the lot save for the homeless man who
lives in his car (who I like), and the other solitary man who eats his lunch
each day in his car and then goes walking. I go into the forest and it is a few
degrees cooler and there is a pond towards the side and back. I see a frog.
Think I hear a snake. Notice winding vines that crawl up a tree like something
out of William Golding. William Golding is probably dead though. I wait in the
marshy and cool area for some time. The canines like it. They drink. Some bird
calls out from somewhere. I once saw a beautiful snake there, representing at
that time the Kundalini energy. We look around. The light filters through the
tree cover and splits into parts, sometimes alighting on moss covered trunks
and rocks, or else on feral flowers, shrubs, leaves healthy and leaves
diseased. A few weeks ago in the light rain and mist I saw my first Salamander.
It was bright orange and just waited on a path. It had probably been rained out.
Having travelled around the past days, I was happy to be back to the fields and
forests. The fields at dusk, yesterday, were cooler and a light breeze came.
Strange cloud formations and the area are golden hued, flaxen, then green up by
the trees, and brown of course on the dirt paths. There are berries and insects
of many kinds. Today, deeper in the forest, I was surprised to see to berries
that were blue, yet did not seem like generic or standard blue berries. Non colloquial
berries. There is always something new. I walk so slowly that it is calm,
still, and the forest world slowly but certainly opens up, - reveals like a Divine
Mother some of her secrets, and perhaps though she is the giver, she does have
some wishes too. The walk is like a sort of prayer rand because of the drive,
the coffee, a headache pill, plus nature, the breeze, the energy of the flowers
and the grounded-ness of walking upon dirt paths, - especially those dirt paths,
- there is a step, a passageway, a fine tune-ment, a moment, that is found
inwardly and it is a moment were things are okay. I, and we, have come to meet
the day. I shall have to make a story, - called simply DAYS, or a three part novella, - ten pages each, - equalling thirty,
- called DAY, DUSK, AND NIGHT. It would
be a longer version of this.
And the
dusk. That will be when the wind comes a bit more, as if promising a storm. A
promissory note for rain, which I have said before somewhere. But it’s not
there yet. The deer, which we saw yesterday, at the crossing, stand for long
peculiar and pensive moments and watch us. The grasses are so tall. I can hear
the train far off – the cargo train, and it goes beyond and behind the marsh
where the yellow buttercups live. The cars are getting less, - the freight
cars, Triton, - designations various. They are like in a story. The insects are
around. Colors fade, and shapes lose their hard edges as I think then more of
dreams, of books not read or read,- of things to study (for some reason). The
moon is there, but I can’t remember now if it’s a crescent or what. The world
without people. The dogs love that time. They are running, - back and forth.
In the
night, the coyotes will come, or else the rain. Maybe a bit of both. Maybe they
watch from their dens. The
They
weave and circle but mostly the shadows and light and rain pellets dance back
and forth along the earth.
Nocturnal
and nothing lurid about it. Or, if there is luridness it is against logic some
sweet and real other reality full of vitality, agility, and a joyous kind of
fright.
It is
their time to be alive.
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