The density is astounding. I am smelling my hands
as I cup my fists in front of my nose. Almost as if at
the refinery itself, the wonderful odors of life emanate.
There is a sequence to everything. The gift is in the
knowing of what it is. We breathe in, and we exhale.
The air around us stays put. We travel, and there is
always air. It moves, and we are always there. The
jovial weatherman, although smiling and never
quarrelsome, seems nonetheless intent on telling
us something between the lines - something his
contract forbids him to say. How the birds
wind their way through the air.
How the geese ride the midnight currents in black and
dark to remove to other places. How the shifting river
of atmosphere about us carries everything along - our
doubts and our odors, our loves and our hates, our deceits
and our crimes. The great cross-current of conversation
and breath, as it rises, mingles its heat and its stories
with all of the cosmos we live amongst. Within us
and without us, it goes.
The smiling one, with the wand and the map, is talking
too sweetly of seasonal change. His doubts must explode
within him, and us, someday. His arrival at his end will
be like ours - perhaps on a clear and balmy day, with
fresh breezes to air out the blood. Perhaps in the wind and
the hail, smothered under a mantle of clothing and coat.
Whatever it is, the transferance will be seamless and swift.
But for a moment, we will be there, and then gone, and
others will cease to know us.
It is like that; here, everywhere.
The density is astounding.