4.24.15 Nonetheless, there is the day that breaks wide open, the hours we are given come and then go

Up at 6, the sky outside my windows singing with pinks and blues and Magritte cloud formations. In my car, I run down the mountain to peer across the fields to the river, and stand there, greeting the brand new day.

You know, in San Miguel D'Allende, Mexico, and Martha's Vineyard, and a whole lot of other places I've lived, the populace will gather to bid goodnight to the sunset and greet the morning.      

             Here, people sit out, but there is no fusion of that sort.

             Often, as I go to stand by a brook or river or the sanctuary, I imagine what all the people in their houses alongside mine, and down the road, the towns, the state and country and earth, are doing, as the ceremonial moment approaches and then blazes,

with astounding color, or a more quiet sort of departure, and then leaves, the day does, and we are left with the night and the coming to a close of the day of our own life, in this way.

Sometimes, from my bed when I wake, or from the living room at dusk, I catch sight of the goings-on, and say to myself "Oh my, look at THAT", and then race out to stand in the back yard, listening to the Peepers far down in the outwaters, or watch the adolescent Crows, en masse, making their way back to the roost, or watch the Sparrow families emerge from their birdhouses, stretch, and peer at the early morning.

 Or perhaps young children or aching knees or dinner dishes consume people. Who knows. My own dearest one, here, does not hear the call. Possibly we all hear different things in life, the way hearing capacity differentiates between dogs and bats and birds and humans. Each caught out assuming that what they hear is all there is, which is never ever true.

Nonetheless, there is the day that breaks wide open, the hours we are given come and then go, and the day then passes into the night, with wild winds and song, or as quiet as a mouse