The summer is settling in. The moon is easing down
to sleep in the trees, even as the stars step back into the dark country of
space. They look like a small cluster of island villages in the North Sea, seen
from an airplane at night.
A fox, interloper here in the middle of a city not
yet overrun by the swelling chorus of cicadas singing summer's requiem, does
its solitary, long-legged Mardi Gras dance down an empty street.
These are, I suppose, precious days in the middle
of a man's life. If you're going to find yourself at the crossroads it's nice
to have such pleasant diversions while you mull your options, nice to still
have options, to still sense the road forking off in so many directions
wherever you happen to find yourself.
Take your time, the night says, it's yours, even if
there's less of it now than there was yesterday, than there was last summer.
Take your sweet fucking time.
It's hard to imagine, on an evening like this, that
there's a single thing out there to be afraid of, or that all your failures add
up to anything but a series of minor follies. It's all frankly hard to imagine:
this life, this world, the world stretching to the horizon in the darkness and
out into space beyond even the most distant stars.
Take your time, the night says, it's yours...perfect! The night also says sweet dreams.
ReplyDeleteLupa
Beautifully written... The creatures remind us that we are not alone... and our follies are not beyond redemption...
ReplyDeleteThis is so beautiful, especially the island villages and the Mardi Gras fox.
ReplyDelete