At Howell

pomegranite

At Howell in the morning I wrote a song. I gathered a tune. The sky of trees with quiet breeze left birds alive and audible. Squirrels making little sound gave evidence and testified to daylight. Quick and chaotic buzzes behind the lines and rising from the lawn. A gaping yawn in the music pouring again, each note is lost in so many.The rest or silence can only break inside my thoughts, words, lyrics...And then it never really stops. Just slow or fast, loud or soft. Easy to recognize or hard to get yet always, always like a lime blosson or mosquito wings, grabbed up at a point to manage, slipping to cycle a new bloom. Each perfection linked to another.
So this chain rattling, this fauna chattering and making myriad patterns. I choose a song, a rhythm and a way to sing along. I bring my beat and ability to repeat to where the backyard meets the clouds. All of us and even them are calling out our names. This serious arrangement is laughter and sobs. Back from or going to our jobs but really, the names are not complete. We all, with sound, in sighting us, relieve the nonsense with a rush of awe.
That day...nice.

JM 5-27-06