28 January 2016

Postcard 47

When I climb the hill at dawn, I am granted a pretending sunset -- the sunrise behind me reflects and refracts in the fog banks rolling over the hills and pushing through the golden gate. 
What is it that sailors say about red skies?
Whatever. Its going to be alright.
This time of year, little hopping birds fill trees in clusters, chirping like rambunctious free leaves, released from immobility. This time of year, the birds of prey pair off: marsh hawks, buzzards, red-tails, kites. They fly low and alight upon fences and poles. The world I look on from the hill has a clarity of intent, of consummate energy. 'Keep going' is its wordless mantra. The broken-legged and starving fox, the lame goose cut off sharply from its annual transience, the tree blown or cut down pushing up creepers. Always reaching, as if worship were just a formal and overwrought reaching.
Keep going. Its going to be alright. 
Turning around on my hill, I survey rail yards, shipyards, ports, terminals, refineries, roads and freeways, hospitals, government buildings monolithic, schools, jails, prisons. I see all the things that make us human. I see so many houses and cars that I wonder how, with this being an irrelevant sampling, it could all be possible. Mines and logging and transit. I resist it all, but I know that I participate. I know that I am a symbiote to that very real matrix of systems built beyond any understanding and interlaced. A great gluttony of entangled knots. 
I could move to the hills. 
I could join a hermitage. 
I could become a vagabond. 
I could build a boat... 
There is a heritage I cannot escape nor can I resist that many bladed inheritance to my children. 
Keep going? Its going to be alright? 
Red sky at morning. Red sky at night.

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