i walk the path between. to my left four lanes of traffic. traffic. traffic. sometimes it rushes. sometimes it is like a black clot of oil. always impatient in its pursuit of some destination. my house, my studio is like a levee; on one side, this irritated flow of metal and mental, and then the other side.
the other side is ravens over cornstalks beginning to yellow and an indigo sky full of storm. i try not to prefer one side to the other. today i fail.
at my feet is an exodus. an envoy from the mythic mind? there is something that satisfies beauty in the burnt umber wings with black bars, the domed head like the globe of a frog’s eye. they often appear confused, made frantic perhaps by the mid-September heat or the crushed bodies of their allies nearby. many die on this modest road–the bicycle path.
They the envoy, make their journey, adorned in rich colors that speak jungles and remind me that size is always relative. they pull like a gauze veil the empty, ominous, winded quiet of the wild lands behind them. these whispers from the non-ordinary, softly approaching, quietly penetrating the racing mind.