Late Prose on a Late-Fall Day
Twinkling would be the wrong word.
It wouldn’t let you see the muted quality of the day, the grey-moist sky. Or the way that every entity, every car and passerby, seems solitary– not forlornly, but as a faint noiseless fact. You wouldn’t feel the seep of cool which shivered its way through that squirrel over there just now.
So before I use the word again, I have to caution you to set aside your expectations. There is no brightness. No sharp light cast off to tickle the eye. But there is twinkling in the motion of the leaves on the bold tree that’s framed in this upper window. Matted muted confetti, dangling from a hundred vertical-spiring branchlets. So tiny and pencil-thin. One blackbird– two– land with a swoop of bouyancy, causing the upmost branch-tier to dunk and recover, dunk and recover.
I liked that motion. There was a fullness to it. Something satisfying in the loping ease of that fluid transfer between those coupling dark silhouettes.
Dozens of times in this seat, such things have lapped at the edges of my attention. Motion, motion. Look at me. I move. I am new. The world is not old; it is ongoing.
Funny, that pull. You know?
It’s hard not to be abnormally fond of.
