Look Here

The choir is warming up beneath the eaves, their voices being carried along a violent wind, competing with the cracks of thunder for our scattered attention. And the dancers are spinning through the raindrops as they speed toward the ground -- driven by the hypnotic rhythms...pounded out with each collision.

The heat of a summer storm. Relentless. Forcing all but a few brave (and quite possibly delirious) souls to shelter -- showing scarce regard for the presentable stature of their hair. Foolhardy knee-scrapers. An unruly lot.

Electric lines are connecting. Reflections are being cast. Puddles will be stomped through...you can be sure. Onlookers will become soaked to the bone. A strange communication is filling the dense air. And it will be many decades before the 'listeners' manage to decipher the bits and put them together. Ocean tides and captured moonbeams. Strange times call for strange allies.

We are becoming aware of the tangled nature of our senses. Hearing what we see. Seeing things we close our eyes to. Feeling a fear we'll never be able to touch. We'll fall in love and develop hatred towards ideas and people and items which exist in the far distant regions of circumstance. So much will happen outside our radius of influence. A landslide will occur at the base of everything we thought we understood. A dream will play itself out in the burning daylight. And we will not know what to make of it all.

The changes will not be discrete. The uncovered revelations will not be trivial. Still, we will go to great lengths to lessen the impact. Such is our way. Clear-cutting the confusion. Stripping bare the essential elements of survival. If only to flex our muscles. Show them who's boss.

Leave it the way you found it. Who said that?

All the lessons have been forgotten. Knowledge has become circumvented. Grave matters can be swept away with the slightest of efforts. Just like that.

Who's kidding who?

The storm breaks. The sky opens wide. The living rejoice and flock to the streets. The band strikes up. The dance is joined. But the day is beginning to hide. And the darkness is securing a foothold. The night is sneaking through the back entrance and preparing its own floor show.

It's the hour of in-between...and anything goes.

~ ~ ~

Return to the Fold

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