Saturday, May 23, 2015

Turn and Look in the Shadows

Ride in the light

Turn, and look in the shadows. What's revealed, what's discovered?

I rode through a row of trees casting a tunnel of dappled shadow. A dove vectored in, and paralleled me in flight close enough that I could read individual feathers in its tail as it matched my speed. Its wings whispered "Versailles, Versailles," in rhythmic beats.

At the side of my vision I caught a tiny motion. I turned, and there by the side of the path was an impossibly tiny boy scraping at the hard dirt with a shovel three sizes too large for his grubby paws. The path bank was rutted from the rains. He glanced up at me, smudged face and gappy smile, raised the shovel over his head and roared. Turn, and look in the shadows.

Seven baby ducks like brownish downy puffs full of wire and rubber bands paddling madly against the current. 

I don't have a checklist. I don't owe anyone anything. This different relation, this different conversation, like leaf shadows moving across a grid of beam shadows, being and becoming, those pillars hold up, and the fence contains, and the wires convey power, and the waters run wet and cold to dissolve and enliven the baked mineral lands, but the ebb and flow holds me in the moment, caught there in the shadows, rolled on muscle and steel, and life I know just then is something more than what we see and yet understand.

In a breath I hold, turn and look to the side. A bunny, munching the morning grass, freezes and looks back at me. No harm but harmony. 

Mama pulling a baby trailer rolls by. I imagine two eyes gazing out at me through the mesh window. A mind in there with neurons coming into being, joining and gathering a million times a second. Gathering light. Gathering information. Gathering the world up, to hold and mold into a self that's becoming. The other way, I turn and look in the shadows, and imagine the dappled light there throbbing like electrified strings of essential heart: if a poet-engineer had all the time, and space, and quiet that she needed, she could code up a new thing that would lift us above everything we think we know now. My art, my hope, my heart sings like that is possible. That it will be so. Maybe not for me, but for the kid in the back of that bike trailer, and the boy with the giant shovel, and those wired baby ducklings, some new love and hope dappling shadows purely, and everyone sees.



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