She Waits or What We've Lost

The wind is cold and agitates her skin. The sun darts behind clouds as though it wants to play with her but is too shy to speak up. They had strolled from winter. The worse was behind them now. A day to escape the concrete canopy and enjoy being. Strange seasonal rituals weren’t a stretch of the imagination in the age of plastic consumption. She waits with experience perched on her shoulders and together they listen to the sound of the waves. Something inside has taken hold and they stare at the ocean. Her shoes safe beyond the high-water mark. Safe and dry. Lesson’s learnt the hard way, often serve you well, like a well appointed prison. One sock is jammed at the toes, while the other flops like a dogs tongue. Now she waits. Watches. Listens.

She sees others ignore their mothers and dive head first into the cold water. Words are yelled. They fly from the mouth but have no strength against the might of the wind, and waves. Meaningless against the vastness. Meaningless against a child’s fascination. She knows that feeling. They know her feeling. They know what she is about to do.

A shore break cobra rears for a second then comes crashing down. The water comes at her ferociously but like those words still drifting away in the wind they slow to a crawl and only kiss her toes. Perfect distance. Now. She charges. Laughter like war-cries. The wave retreats. She has no fear and she can’t sense any. She tries to stomp the wave with her feet. Shards of water some like glass, others like shiny clouds speckle her dry clothes. Softening them against the salty wind. Experience whispers something in her ear. She stops. She waits. A foot away and a second wave has begun to draw the first in, take it’s energy and change it’s momentum. It rears up, and lunges forwards. Her feet leave dry holes that are quickly consumed by the new playmate. She runs back towards the shoes. Back towards the words. The beach is the world. She has it all in her laughter.

The Courtyard

The courtyard becomes a different place with your eyes closed. The creaking of my fingers against the side of a coffee mug as birds sing to one another. Backwards and forwards. A split second delay lies between them. It doesn’t sound like a song. It’s broken. A conversation. They talk about their day above the city. Their song is as beautiful as the city must be through their eyes. Theirs is a place beyond the noise and madness. Maybe cities make more sense from up there in the sky? Humans built this city and while we made these buildings and these roads we can only participate in the unknown that brings the life to this place. We can’t create that knowingly. We are vital but we don’t see the forest from the trees. The birds will educate and entertain anyone who can hear their lectures. I hear them everyday. But I rarely listen. Maybe I should start. After all they see something I don’t so they know something I can’t.

Behind the birds comes the dull hum of traffic. Consistent and steady. A car horn sounds. Aggressive. Upset. It signals the beginning of the cresendo. A bus roars. More horns. Only this time playfully enjoying the show. A motorcycle engine tries to cut the tension and weaves through the movement but the horns respond with rapid fire and it all fades into the distance. The crescendo continues down the road, but for me, it is over and the symphony returns to a hum. So many people in a hurry to be somewhere else. To do this. To do that. To do nothing. Something about it doesn’t make sense. I’ll ask the birds. The opera interrupted by a conversation behind me. Spanish is a passionate language. More often than not spoken by passionate people. The sheets in the spare bedroom need to be changed. I am implicated. Guilty. I repent. Beg forgiveness by righting my wrongs. My blind show is over for now.

As the shops close and the schools end and the offices turn out their lights the music will grow louder. Until the birds find a place to vanish and the people get home carefully placing their instruments away in garages and car spaces the show will go on. Tomorrow morning the birds will return to the trees, to the sky and we, the composers, will return to the stage. Be it the metro, the buses, or the road. Our lives are lived somewhere between the symphonies.

The new uniform

One foot in front of the other. The puddles play a duet with the holes in my shoes and I dance to the tune. I haven’t seen rain for months. I haven’t seen rain like this for years. The roads have become torrents of brown water. The cars are amphibious. Tidal waves of water explode from the road. I thought that only happened in movies. Don’t wear white. The city changes colour, the sky, the air; both dull as the light is low and evenly shared. There is no spotlight. The sun can’t discriminate under the clouds. Today humans steal the show. The neon lights come alive. The road is blacker and the grass is greener. Some disagree. Taillights burn a path through the grey and headlights at noon make reflections on the road. There is two of everything. Twins. One perfect, one peculiar. Not sure which is which. People scurry with their hands above their heads. Folders and bags become umbrellas. Stopping a freight train with a feather. Two schools of thought exist. To run or walk? The jury is still out. The mountains that surround us have stepped quietly into the fog. Tomorrow the air will be cleaner, and the sky brighter. Tomorrow the mountains will return to their posts. At attention. Sentries on guard. Enveloping the city like a duvet on a cold night. Keeping their city from leaving, keeping their city safe. Tomorrow the mountains will be back with a new uniform. Brighter than ever.