- 7/30/2007 12:14 PM ET
Nice! I really enjoy reading your observations. You have the ability of bringing your reader along with you as you write.
|My Walk with Chewy
The construction workers at the fairgrounds
are blasting their radio
Periodically, small fragments of Heart's "Magic Man"
drift to me on snippets of what, with a little ambition,
could become a breeze.
I am in the adjacent lot - an undeveloped parcel
across a two-lane street from where I live - taking baby steps
Through the twisted skeletons of alkalai scrub
which cohabit so easily with the living.
The live ones seem unaffected by the corpses of
their ancestors, casually decimating in this
last early-autumn heat wave.
But I don't speak their language.
It's the time of day when things to the east of you
still have color and detail,
but things to the west are deadened to a charcoal silhouette
by the last glowing rays of daylight reflecting
Rose colored death throes, like an ancient supernova,
onto the last clouds in the stratosphere.
It strikes me that in the discipline of astronomy,
the words ancient and distant are interchangeable.
Here on Earth they'll tell you that time is money.
But out among the nebulae, things aren't so abstract.
There are no banks in deep space.
Who,besides Andromeda, would calculate the distance to Detroit
with a calendar?
Somewhere behind me - a shadow among the jagged
desert vegetation - is my cat.
He is playful - his typical response to this time of day.
Dusk is his dawn, but we still get along okay.
He rushes past me then waits for me to catch up,
But by then he's once again occupied by
A sound, a smell, a thought?
I have gone another 20 yards before he rushes past again.
The only worry I have - now that he knows
we're headed home - is that he doesn't watch for cars.
Today is no different.
In vain I yell to him, "Chewy!" Then offer silent thanks
to the watchful driver who slows as he darts past.
As I walk up the driveway, I deliver a casual admonishment.
He's already seated and inattetively licking
the bottom of his right back paw.
He doesn't care; he's free.
Now that the crickets have awoken, he lies on the porch,
His regal head erect out of his body's lateral recline,
Switching the tip of his tail to the 60-cycle hum
Of the white porch light, and waiting for the next
Sound, smell, thought?
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Comments 1 to 4 of 4