Every Good Morning

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On the summer solstice, a hot day, walking without the dogs transforms a parade into a walkabout. Instead of calling out commands and regulating their yipping runs through brush and fields like agreeable velociraptors, a comparative silence. No longer striding but stalking. Stopping. Listening. Waiting. Going still. Sitting in the wash of a breeze. Sometimes crouching along a tree line or next to high grass. Cutting my silhouette. And then thinking, “What if someone comes along unexpectedly?” Thinking, “O hello said the wolf, I’m out for a jaunt. How do you do this fine day?”

Stillness focuses the attention. One suddenly becomes emptied of confusions and abstractions — cloud shadows float up a close, green hill. Hunting dragonflies rise from the grasses and perch and rise again.  Nothing in the sky but clouds and light, two physicians of baleful thoughts.

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© Mike Wall

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