The Transition

Its weather like this that makes us cherish warmth.  All weekend it’s been wind-driven rain.  The leaves in the yard are now glued down like leftover spinach leaves in a steamer.  The sound of the rain drumming on the roof in an uneven tempo.

The day’s chores are over… now we are left to our own interests… free to free our body of the need to resist gravity and let that one chair do the work for us.  My glass of Merlot is half gone.  The smell of dinner is lofting up the stairs… being chased by the sounds of the kid’s weekend movie (the Sound of Music… must be Charlotte choice).

As if there should be bats flickering through the scene.

Out the window there is half-light.  The tree’s, our oaks, are clothed in various hues of red, yellow and orange.  So vivid when wet that even I, the color blind one, can see them.  The limbs move like sea weed to the rhythm of a wave.  They are reacting to some greater presence then the one that can be detected through the aperture of my window.  To see this pattern one would have to be walking on a plane just above the trees themselves.  Floating along with God as a tour guide.

The dark trunks and limbs can barely be detected but yet who’s presence is understood.  Their presence is so important yet seldom recognized as the vehicles which brings the ability to the performer.  The stage floor for the dancers.


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