Distant fog horns, in those venerable Lamp Lighter days, effused forest burrows. Given some unfavorable position . . . a fish just netted, a turtle flipped on its back like a tiddly wink . . . the improbabilities of couch potato life flashed signals that glowed. Obviating forks and spoons, a shuffle could be heard. Would it be the resonance of a temple bell, or a siren, or that of a waterfall waiting for rain?
When speaking to Lizard, my friend basking in the sun, can we recall this resurgence of the Lighter days and, hearing no fog, assign no gender? What say you, Lizard?
In four-part harmony, horns reach the entrance. It will be a whale of a show, entrancing a trance, with stubby little paws pushing a back beat to beat the band, overturning grass stained connections. It had never been comfortable on that couch, never as good as . . .
Lizard basking, “Nights in the burrow, remember?”
Next heard was the metallic clack of forks and spoons, the old Lamp Lighter shuffling along, humming fog horn tunes. It seemed the very axis of everywhere.
Nowhere, not to be outdone, is escaping through the rear view mirror. This phenomenon does not invite serious attention. It's gone before you know it. Since no one catches it in the act, a bystander guesses maybe it went somewhere in between. But life is fleeting. Why bother?
We usually focus on the road just ahead. When changing lanes, something might appear out of nowhere, the go between of an image mysteriously fading. One is left with a blank reflection. And who wants to think about something that happens quicker than thought? But isn't this, after all, what we call reflection?
The side view mirror on newer cars has a warning: “Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.”
Translation: “What you see is not what you get.”
Going somewhere calls for looking. Where you were means looking back. Where you are right now means looking both ways. Somewhere in the midst is nowhere, which shifted out of view quicker than my Lizard.
Wake up early enough and you'll find California's State Flower fast asleep. Right there is a meeting of the minds -- one which hasn't quite let go, and another ready to open up. This interim state is not often studied, the in-between, not subject to logic, and famously cultivated by politicians.
A State Aptitude Test for politicians might include sleeping in a meadow. There is no accounting for dreams that disappear at first light. To qualify, the applicant might take in a butterfly net at night, to show in the morning. So the whole show and tell would fall upon the poppies, unable to give speeches.
“I think we can all agree,” the Governor chose Saint Patrick's Day, “that the Golden State is aptly represented by this humble flower. It's brilliant hue is a near match for the gold panned out by our pioneers. And it has only gotten better, inspiring our famous football team.”
The meadow was peaceful, not a sleeping bag in sight. The poppies, having toiled not, kept their petals folded. With low clouds and fog streaming in night and morning, who would check whether butterflies are actually dreams, as it had often seemed. But in fact, no one had bothered to ask.
An interim dream had the floor, being the penultimate basis before waking up. And yes, butterflies are the ones that escaped being caught. Once they are, they flutter away.
The pot of gold, being so heavy, left no choice for the poppies but to unfurl their petals. And for once the politicians were speechless. Actions speak louder than words.
