A PLACE CALLED WATER
Water ocean from below
surf pounding the body, sea spray carried by wind
sand and sun and water
boats, bodies both
take in the last warm fall days
before the end of sweet summer heat
and then it will be time of brisk sea and air
hot tea and coffee and winter's wild storms
everything to the rhythm of the tides,
the never ending clock
the never failing events.
Along the black ribbon
at 9,000 kilometers
at 130 kph
Far north in the dome of clear sky,
lightening.
there is a whole different rhythm as flashes excite the reflections
and the heights close on each side of the road.
An odd coincidence.
the contrivance of man, measured time.
a device locked into its' own reality
is in step with the flashing lightning
1 0 1 0 - on off - on off ...
binary has rhythm too it seems
the lightning flashes 1 0 1 0 - on off - on off
flash dark, flash dark
at 1 0 1 1
suddenly, flash dark, flash flash.
at 130 kph, at 9 k elevation all motion suddenly
isn't
there is only stillness
and for a blink, for that moment between off and on
is sight.
then an odd dissatisfaction
passing the instant
open and closed
off then on
for a blink
nothing ever has seemed to have importance
in the sight is everything
that looks like nothing
and then the wave of dissatisfaction
with nothing.
Where is the sky?
the moon is nowhere to be seen
through a now dominant cloud cover
Suddenly, the ribbon becomes a huge slide
the glimpses of left and right reveal rising escarpments
the ribbon is now a tunnel, flowing down at 130 kph.
And the walls drop away
there is a starry horizon
and a spreading open plain
then the valley itself lights up
Finally it rains.
Not water like the sea.
Not spray like the foam carried on a breeze
Not the water from below rising to pound a willing body
eager in sun and sand and surf.
Water of a whole different taste.
Water of a lighter texture, driven by wind and gravity, fired by lightening.
there is not a sun's heat, but the cold mountain night.
Standing in the frigid air, becoming covered from above, swept with water
on face and limbs and then more sudden thunder
magnificent in it's concussion
so different from that of the surf.
Water pouring ice cold is a water unlike yesterday's water rising.
A very different rhythm from this water.
Water pulled by gravity, driven by wind, one rising - one falling.
Then it is time to move on again.
Not all who wander are lost.
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