I should pause for a moment and mourn the plump orbs vinaceous in the morning sun, torn free, placed in baskets and carried off to be crushed. But the cabernet beckons, its first sip telling the tale of the California summer, the oak having long forgotten the tree from which it was cut, and I watch as the sun reluctantly retreats, a flaming farewell, the promise of a return, the moon casting its purple glare on the wine glass.
As stars go, of course it is rather nondescript, small, middle aged stuck in a distant corner of a not all that impressive galaxy.
Yet each morning it sweeps the sky storing all of its kin, even the biggest and brightest, into its own celestial closet where they will remain locked away until it decides it needs a rest and lets them return to once again paint the sky.
She is so often present as the sun makes its daily retreat, we imagine she is mysterious as she hides, or does she take refuge in the shadows.? Only a few have truly seen her and they speak only of her luminescent alter ego.
A desert again, always a desert and she the saint of uncounted names, her crying eases, no smile appears for this Madonna of the coyotes, her orange-orbed eyes shuttered against the slowly retreating sun. Once her tears watered the desert sands, mixed with the blood of a Christ now long forgotten, trans- substantiated into a spirit we formed in our image, no longer we in his. The Blessed Mother watches, holding hope, holding space, holding a serenity we cannot fathom in our search for divine justification. She remembers, she mourns, for what ought to be, and waits for the windwalkers to pull the blanket of stars over her.
I saw the sun rise this morning over Mt. Hood, the glow that announced to the horizon its approach. There should be in the life of every man, every woman, that moment when seeing dawn lift, peel back the shroud from Mt. Hood causes the sudden intake of just that much extra breath.
The jetty is replete today with tourists, pale as the sun bleached concrete, stopping to gawk at the fishermen who ignore them intent on watching the sadly still line.
The pelicans sit on the rocks grooming and posing, talking loudly on occasion before spreading wings and flying off. Out on the jetty a pelican waits patiently for the fisherman to pack up for the day, knowing he will dump his bait bucket on the concrete and the pelican will be rewarded for his patience.
In the twilight of the dove, that moment when the sun’s retreat has only just begun my shadow stretches ever so slowly into oblivion.
I hear it whisper to me a promise to return and I want nothing more than to believe it, for the grant of another day is a small wish granted, one I make with the knowledge that the genie of age is growing ever more tired of responding to my unchanging request.
Appearing night makes no promises and the stars consider me and us all inconsequential in the celestial scheme of things