Tree Swallows have arrived. They dance in the
sky. The close Mockingbird has paired. She still looks
nervous. Weather for Sunday includes snow and a low temperature
several degrees below the freezing point. And the potatoes are
showing. So much for orderliness.
But these are the trials of an isolated being,
perhaps lost in an idolatry. That part of life that is near.
In the faraway others have built their own idols. Sometimes there is
a clash. Then we chose sides.
Some call it a condition, and give it the pedigree of a
thing ordained. Others call it a failure of imagination. But
who, I wonder, revels in it.
In the random place there are infinite possibilities, and in this place
life dances quite happily, always. But I am a moment in time, I am a quality
of time. My dancing is limited.
There will be those who think this ridiculous. They will find it
useless, and yawn for a while before wandering toward an
overburdened refrigerator. In this way, they will tell me to pull myself together, cover the
potatoes or find useful work.
Which is I guess that condition of
choosing sides, or a failure of imagination, or the geometry of a two