The forest looks painted with dabs of bright color, a pointillist mural of the leaves' last hurrah. Soon, it'll turn twiggy, and sing desolation, and invite the fog in to soften sharp lines. Then one day you'll notice leaves glowing in sunlight. Their green will be golden from warm yellow rays. The maturing forest will darken its greenness, turning to sober tones that blot out the light.
It rains for days on end in this city. The people peer out under umbrellas. Nothing 's washed clean; it's soggy & gritty and brutal as a Kafka novella. The streets aren't light, but nor are they true dark. The light isn't absent, just sapped of vim. The gray that remains is like Fall in Denmark. Relentless rain is relentlessly grim. The gutters are glutted with murk and sludge. The rushing waters can't sweep it all clean. All work 's drudgery and all walks a trudge, and there's no sparkle in the pavement sheen. Do some "sing in the rain?" No, they just mock -- their umbrella flipped out and w/ sodden socks.
the dragonfly is still, and I wonder whether it's dead, and further wonder whether anyone has thought that of me
A million lives are packed in this city, and each one struggles to be its own self: the starving, rotund, ugly, and pretty -- the tailored and those who buy off-the-shelf. And everyone fails, yet they all succeed in being different, while being alike. And they all heal, while they also all bleed, and almost all would survive a first strike. Everyone knows someone - just not neighbors. They love to remain enigmatic at home, while transparent with those who share labors -- though some want everyone to leave them alone. A city is a strange place full of strangers, and those who choose it thrive on its dangers.
If you can follow rivers to the sea by drifting without thrashing or grasping -- just let the flow take you upon a spree, a spree of dunk and breathe, without gasping, then you will witness all there is to know. You'll see shaky shanties and vast estates, the birds in flight and creatures: fast and slow, the weeping willows, and fish tempting Fates. If you can roll around the rocks -- always -- and never crack your head and silence all the voices saying you've reached your end-days, and never rush and never, ever stall... If you can do all this and keep the flow, it won't matter you don't know which way you go.
a park at night. the shadows are darker because of the light
Rivers merge. Trees may fork, but rivers merge. True, sometimes rivers split to form an island, and when they near the sea they may branch out like the roots of a tree. How the river knows it's near the sea is unclear to me, but it is the river's nature. As is the tendency of rivers to merge toward unity of flow. But what is my nature?
the moth is still.
is it alive or dead?
how patient am i?
one dandelion stands alone at field's edge; where are its friends?
the cattail sways with a unique rhythm, but - now - is still
Tiger Riding for Beginners 