February

Afoot again, to fading flight of jet deep in the silent sky, and to far hill's bawl of cow flesh,, the old woman and her dog were loose and searching under February's thin and questioning cloth. In January, she had strode alone, but now the sap was rising in the human race, and the necklace of path around the lake was studded with distant and deadened people,  January  loathe to loosen the human soul. A cloud of starlings weaving their net of song on a rusty shuttle, hung invisible in  nearby tree, working the threads of the morning's mood.  The lake's literate ducks had slid more distantly out upon the waters, like poets gone into themselves to mine for meaning. A half mile from the Starlings' tree God perched high and easy in a eucalyptus tree and waited patiently for the gears of his toy to turn, from winter into spring, as dead souls streamed from old centuries into the morning on a tireless breeze. Graffiti flew along the walls of the lake's dry and weedy downspout, words dripping with wild anger in strokes of red and bold, ..The Cave paintings,from this sinking age.   It was an unseemly day for February, too warm for winter's love affair with death, and the dry canes of anise huddled together and secreted the bawdy whore of spring in their roots. A frail congregation of cattle read the Bible of greening grass oblivious to the Sword of Damocles that hung in the sky. The little dog paused often listening, nose working constantly drawing fact from the wind, puzzled by conundrum beyond his ken, as above him two hawks circled lazily, assessing his weight. "These clouds would look nice in my house", she thought, but knew that clouds were like wild horses running who cannot be tamed, and so she left them there with the ducks, and vanished, taking only the curious dog and the morning's vein of hope. Written February 11th, 2002 © on Feb 10 2002 06:15 PM PST, Carole Dudley    0 • 1