The Rooster's Call

At that time, when the sky changes out of her glistening black dress and takes the violet robe, the one with roses on the hem, in hand; that is when the rooster crows. Before the sun floods the lands to the east with light, before the mountains, acting like dams to the bright, burst;
when that light pours across the drenched passes and floods our valley with the first hint of warmth, of glow and goodness, by then the solitary rooster will have called and called in vain. Nothing will answer, nothing but the occasional burdenous rasp of rubber on night-rested streets, rubber soles of metal boxes that carry the rooster-deaf to no where.
Then, when this field of flowers sings, flowers with wings, flowers that fly and warble; filling the air with their song and themselves, the rooster will have shouted loud his own existence.
At that time, before the spider webs, draped with dew and visible, lose their finery and disappear; the rooster will have crowed and quieted.
With the sun high on the horizon and if it is Sunday, the nine o'clock bell of the church will call instead. The rooster's peal forgotten and everyone at work, I will continue to wonder: where does that rooster live?

The Apple

The heft of it in my hand. Walking home from the grocery store. Another toss. The solid "whap" as tight skin slaps my right palm. A bag of dinner carried on my left; beer and bread and butter. Waiting for the right time to bite into the apple. Waiting.
When it comes, it happens without thinking. The first bite always too large. A flood of sweet, a dribble down the chin. Wipe with the back of the hand as my tongue maneuvers the over sized piece. A grunt from my body; vocal satisfaction. Chewing and swallowing the sweet juice. The smell of the apple. The crunching. Memories flood in; of the first apple I really appreciated. The one with a bread roll. When I was a boy. Bread and fruit. Complete meal. Satisfaction.
A dozen brown and shiny babies lie waiting. Waiting for the right time. After winter cold and spring wet. Some to sprout, some not, some later. At the edge of a ditch, on the side of a street; waiting, waiting.
It is a silent contract between the apple and us. We eat and the seeds get carried a long way. Whether landfill or street side, doesn't matter. Just so long as the relationship benefits both.

The Universe inhales and exhales. 100 billion years or more; slow breaths. It expands and contracts, grows and then, shrinks, impossibly small. Space itself collapses and there is nothing outside of a tiny seed, minute and waiting. Waiting to expand again, to sprout another cycle; over and over, endlessly. No beginning and no end. Infinite.
There are silent contracts between so many things. We and the apple, the apple and the Universe, that and us. There is so much we don't know.

Full of apple, I toss the core to the side of the road. I do this with a sense of satisfaction, a satisfaction given in silence; a nod of approval by a smiling child, curly haired and cloud clothed. The apple, in a way, is now a part of me as I am an important part to the apple. A messenger or a delivery boy. Called by sweetness and the promise of memories. A completion.
A dozen shiny brown babies wait, held tight in the dried core, close to the earth; overgrown. Waiting to inhale and expand; They, We and the Universe.

Dreams

In the evening, when the sun favors us with the magic light, clouds glowing red and rough tree bark shining, we prepare for the nightly journey into our deep self. It is an ancient ritual, whether warm tea and bed clothes or not; twilight and the rising moon; first star gleaming from the infinity.
With eyes closed we walk. Walk down a long flight of stairs. Stairs solid as stone and bare as metal bars; changing, changing into a soft flowing; by degrees and slowly, with each step; each step softer, down soft, less demanding, allowing. Stairs and stepper melting, changing, growing together into a warm, thick water. Flowing as deep rivers do, slow and easy and unhurried.
We flow into the deep ocean of possibilities. Overhead the wise light of the Night Queen, feeding us the silver drops that drive our dreams. Here we find a liberation, our small salvation; the freedom we yearn for.
We were taught it isn't real and taught to disregard those experiences. We were lied to about so many things. we were told to follow our dreams and that dreams are delusions. Taught that monsters don't exist and were given mortgages and cancers instead. Wars and Mayhem.Frenetic and frantic races of rats is real. So we were taught.
At night we dream. Whole lives lived in minutes. What it feels like to be a cat. To fly, wingless. Recollections of experiences never possible and premonitions. Guides come and to counsel and we play; actors in our own films, we, the directors and the extras.
We return rested, drifting upstairs into a dawning day, sunrise and birdsong. And we ask each other: What did you dream? Where did you go? Who went?

Early Morning

Waiting suspended, belly to the Vast Blue, a brown spider waits. Her invisible web spans the spread finger distance between two delicate, violet tinged Hydrangea flowers, above a lush mound of leaves. Silent, patient and enduring, she waits.
Below her, a snail seeks shade, skating slowly on a silver, fragile glass path of it's own making. After a night of raspy grazing, seeks the safety of the dark in hidden spaces. To sleep, sealed tight in his carry-along home, digesting and growing during the day.
It is early morning summer day-start and a promise of hot hangs in the air.
Dew tears run down the faces of Calla Lilly leaves, deep green hands cupped to the sky. Gathering the harvest of night sweat and channeling that wet down fleshy stems to thirst roots. White stemware flowers tower stately above, each pointy end adorned with a diamond drop of moisture.
I sit in my patio garden, quiet as that brown spider, bathing in an ocean of bird song. From tall trees, birds sings their melodies, repeated endlessly.
The plants are singing, too. They sing a slow song; notes will fall in the fall on the eager ears of the earth; tiny orbs of life, waiting; to sprout next year, or the years after.
Then another stanza.
Endlessly.

Regeneration Song

Waiting suspended, belly to the vast blue, a brown spider waits. Her invisible web spans the hand-width distance between two delicate hydrangia blooms, above the lush mass of leaves. Silent, patient and enduring, she waits.
Below her, a snail seeks shade, skating ever-so-slow on a silver, fragile path of his own making. After a night of grazing on the greenery, he glides into the dark to sleep, sealed tight in his home, digesting and growing during the day.
It is early morning summer day break and a promise of hot hangs in the air.
Dew tears run down the faces of calla lilly leaves. Those deep green hands stand cupped to the sky, gathering the night-sweat and channeling that harvest down stout stems to thirsty roots below. White stemware flowers tower stately above, each pointy end adorned with a glassy drop of dew.
I sit in my garden, quiet and patient as that brown spider, bathing in an ocean of birdsong. From tall trees, far and wide, birds sing and repeat endlessly.
The plants are singing also. They sing a slow song; notes of which will fall on the fertile ear of the world. Tiny orbs of life that will sprout and sing next year or the year after.