This time I barely barely noticed the tiny outward movement
that the matter made. I looked on. To see in a minute or more a
ripple, like a breeze, cross the surface, and then a door opened.
Which was unexpected, although this should not have been a surprise. The street had looked deserted. And I was alone, certainly. But there beside the door a tiny shadow quivered. A leaf, hardly. An apple shape, hovering in the warmth. It was that time, just after mid-afternoon, when the weather rested, and air suspended a mist, a breath, a breathing. And one walks on, no doubt. Goes that little bit further. Even though noises warn, no. Nothing will happen. Then like a window the corner comes, and it is easy to round its craggy edges, or its smooth upper reaches, that have been seen before by everyone. Until, the shape arrives. There is is, by itself. Which is unusual. But it is, by itself. There, like some other type of solid. The thing would be to touch it, take it in a hand, and make off. Pretend it was a gift, a purchase. The lovely object, seen at last, by the lazy eye. Or maybe not. Anyway, very still, one becomes. All aglow. Silly even. It's such a moment. Who could tell that it would be. Away up in a nearby tree a rustle. The little shadow fades. It's more a pear now. One end has squeezed itself narrow. But it shakes. It's the sun. It's a cloud. Very still is the body. And almost tired. A good drink of water would be a blessing. Home in awhile. Now fleetingly the shadow is not longer matter. But I go on with the looking. What else. There, it's gone. With the water flowing along the path toward the south. It's like the end of a tough song, in the last note, much.
Text ~ Linda Marie Walker