Arising into night the departing sun tangos away with its cloud, memories soon forgotten.
Other dancers take the stage, now a romance, now a war dance, feathers raised in prayer to unseen gods.
Night will soon bring its curtain across this stage, the avian casts’ final bows taken the theater will darken, awaiting another performance, a new script tomorrow, but for this solitary moment of frozen grace, it is we who write the conversation, our lines sung by actors who know only nature’s unrelenting song.
It was a chance meeting they thought although the Fates knew otherwise. Theirs was a subtly planned world, leave no fingerprints, always have an alibi, better still never get caught.
It was a short meeting, a brief conversation and an ill-meant promise to stay in touch, numbers exchanged and as soon forgotten.
He never imagined calling, nor did she, but he did call and they did meet again, and the Fates smiled as the couple celebrated their golden anniversary, both still certain it was all a simple matter of chance.
Would it surprise you to learn that like most writers, I have spent more than a little guilty time trying to imagine what you look like, what you know you should be doing while you are reading this poem.
And I do wish I couild see your face as you read it, knowing it is a conversation where you want to speak, to tell me that you like my work, that reading me is a complete and utter waste of time, but you cannot, so I will conclude that you do like my work or else you would not be reading this in the first place.
At some point in each call to a customer service representative, or worse still technical assistance which is a painful oxymoron in and of itself, I pause and wonder how the conversation might go if I could reach through the ether of the phone and grab the script. Would the voice on the other end suddenly become attached to a person, ripped from its computer home? Would that person engage in pleasantries for a bit before telling me that I should go to the website where I will inevitably learn that there is nothing they can or will do for me? And why is a call to my local doctor garbled, but my computer voice in India is crisp, clear if never fully intelligible?
Arising into night the departing sun tangoes away with its cloud, memories soon forgotten. Other dancers take the stage, now a romance, now a war dance, feathers raised in prayer to unseen gods. Night will soon bring its curtain across this stage, the avian cast’s final bows taken the theatre will darken, awaiting another performance, a new script tomorrow, but for this solitary moment of frozen grace, it is we who write the conversation, our lines sung by actors who know only nature’s unrelenting song.
If you want a good conversation birds should be your first choice, wading birds at the top of the list, although you still have to be quick for if you meander they will lose interest.
Animals are to who you should turn if you need advice on getting through the omnipresent obstacles life raises to impede your smooth passage through it, but note cats tend to be pithy and easily bored.
Cows and horses in the fields have almost infinite patience, and listen when others would turn away, but note that they are easily distracted so it is best to keep a handful of hay at the ready always.
And, remember to bring your dictionaries for birds and animals will speak to you only in their own languages despite the fact that they fully understand yours, but do not deign or desire to be thought of as human.
Our cat has become a conversationalist. Her vocabulary grows larger each day. She seemingly shares her every thought with us, and admittedly we talk to and through her with some regularity as well. She does grow frustrated when we don’t immediately understand what she is saying, what she wants in a given moment. That is our assigned task, she will tell us. We ask for a cat dictionary and she scoffs. I may speak in cat, she says, but I certainly think in human, so figure it out, I am not that much smarter than you humans.