The Mountains

Between the trees, I can see the mountains. They are the size of my thumb, when I bring it up to the horizon and place it right between my eye and the sun. Shrouded by a purple mist, they emanate a quiet power, a serene majesty--if only I could reach out and sift my hands through the knobby green, I imagine that the mountains have the texture of the old green rug that used to sit at the base of my brother’s bed.

When we first bought the rug, it was the color of conifers--a deep, comforting, evergreen so soft that we would rub our dimpled fingers through the fibers until they came out into our palms. We spilled milk on it, orange juice, pomegranate seeds, until the fibers grew hard, sticky, and crusty. We played on it with our cars and our legos, we made tatters out of its off-white tassels. After ten years of weathering, we rolled it up and threw it in the waste receptacle that sits by our mail-box without a second thought.
My memories are interrupted beeping. A yellow construction vehicle, with wheels like a tank, reverses down the road. In its iron claw, it holds the rocky tatters of a mountain’s tassels--I think of the rug, and I realize that the mountains aren’t so different.

Sunlight

      Sunlight. Touching the tips of trees, far away hills, a church spire. A soft golden glow on the edges of the world - on the bowl of the sky smeared with white-orange gobs of oil paint. And stillness.  Still and quiet and alone I stand in the shadowed center of the honeyed edges of the world.  A thousand whispers through the trees caress and sway the gold-tipped branches, send ripples through a pond of grass, hold me in a perfect moment of joyful loneliness.

Talented

My fingers dance across its pearly teeth, coaxing cries that speak of  inexplicable sadness  from the innards of the beast. The wistful tones fill the room, the tune a blur of emotions that perfectly describe the twists and turns, the ups and downs of life, punctuated by the sim-- A prolonged Doom rings out in the distance (the sound of someone hitting all the keys at once) pervading my dream and thrusting me back into reality. Without missing a beat, I continue my private concert, playing the entire "Jaws" theme song with two ivory keys.

Entertainers

 The sun sets. The stage has been set. The performance has begun. The human eye is weak, so the performer must conjure up a brilliant color. Electric green. Rhythmically, they dance, hover, fly in patterns that have been set through ancient tradition and animal instinct. Instinct we have long forgotten, and now rediscover. Their movement is slow, as if struck by a terrible burden. The burden of disregard and disinterest. No, this night was theirs.

Indefinite Leaves

     Two trees, separated by the clammy tar of a road that was freshly rained on just two hours ago.  Two trunks of coarse weather-beaten bark, each intertwines into its own spiraling pattern.  Their branches stretch in all directions, but each has a single limb that extends over the pathway that is being blanketed by the coalesced memories of fog left by last night’s storm.  These limbs long to touch but they are out of their leaves’ grasps.  Two twined trees, forever connected by their water source yet indefinitely apart - until their leaves age and fall to the ground, where they will dance to the music of the wind in their afterlife.

77 Degrees

The worn faux wood, barren of anything that might give it the slightest glint of personality, stared back as me as I entered the room. Sturdy and angular. Soulless and awful. The off-white walls could do no more than nod in agreement and the cold tiled floor sighed in defeat as well. Lonely, they said. Empty, they said. The only sound was the groan of the exhausted air conditioner in the corner, chugging away without stop and begging me to raise the temperature on the thermostat. It fought long and hard with the summer heat until finally, under the bright 3 o’clock sun, it gave up with a loud huff and let the mercury climb sky-high.  You deal with the heat, it cried in defeat. The furniture merely squeaked its half-hearted pity. Finally, I left it alone there, huffing and puffing in the sweltering sun, to hide away in the frigid room next door. I think I heard the dresser drawers, still empty, grunt a short sound of protest as I left them alone in there to simmer in its barren and lonesome state. Its bellows were quieted only by my silent promise that later I would return and try my best to cool its scorching solitude.

Detail

As I walk outside, wind tickles my cheeks, and I smile. I don't know why, but this always causes me to look toward the sky. Today it amazes me just how brilliantly real it looks. The sky itself is the color of baby blue, exactly. The kind of color that makes you want to walk or run or skip or jump, or just do anything to feel alive. It makes you happy you're alive, too. And personally, I can say, that is not always the case in life. So a sky like this is worthy of almost anything you can think of to celebrate it.


Blocking out portions of that light blue, milky kind of overhang are clouds, all different and yet all alike. Though there is wind all around me, the fluff-balls remain unchanged. Some of them are all bright white and solid, others ranging in shades white and looking softer than cotton. Occasionally one will wander out of place and cover up the burning, hot sun, but the big ones stay directly above me. I study them and study them and study them again, trying to capture their magnificence. I don't think even these words do them justice.