A night turns to light before sunrise in some tall town, in some thought in the apex of idealism. Dew setting on sleeping crysaline grass waving featherly as if the breeze flowing over them causes them to breathe. Each step, each movement sprinkling our shoes and pant cuffs making all the color in contact become that deeper shade. Like painting in a wet on wet technique. Walking in the shallows, stumbling and balancing along imaginary fences and rail road ties as if on the edge of adulthood before the plunge into normality. Walking with my favorite written personification. Feeling is the canvas of this day. The ability to dream like a passport. The only way to walk here and now.
Auburn colored leaves with edges stained in red in semi-stunted trees glue-sticked across the landscape close to each other. Enough that their leaves speckle the pre-sun day if you were crouching infront of them. Or in a night sky hide the more lucid parts of constellations, like a stellar peepshow. Across the slender roll of the hill down to the pond are a litter of gray rock, no more tall than hobbit holes. Grass trails leading away from each in multiple directions as if they were inhabited for years. The pond, so subtle. Like an infinity factory of sheer soft skin. As if we could lay aside our clothes and risk the brisk chill and be reborn. The ribbonless water mirror imaging the waterbugs, echoing their thoughts across the neverland meadow in forms of crickets and toads. You could almost see back in time from a parallax view, Merlin exchanging common speech with the Lady, taking the sword from her gentle hand. And there they huddled down, all together. The wintered and weathered pair souls. Hen and Heather, Gellhorn and Hemmingway, Thomas and Claire, Val and Ani, looking out at the small'ish pond, morning twilight's chill.
We chose to lay in the meadow lands in that mountain top valley. Wishing it would just rain already. Things should just...be this way. If we could just climb backwards in our skin. Lie here in children's clothes with toys and unpeeled bandaids, french braids and beetle's haircuts- lollippops and Milk Duds. Hold each other in small hands under torn blankets. Just like this. Just like now. And weep all our grown-up pains away into the puddles under the morning grass, the ones that stain our clothes in innocence. We would have that conversation, after the crying, " Does magic really happen?" In a pre-teen boyish manner. Sincere and critical of the possiblity that things imagined actually can happen- They can 'be for reals'. Afterlife, forelife, pre-life are across the way walking slowly, wanting us to notice the delicate details in each of them. The things we never noticed before. Not than anything can be changed, just to appreciate the weaving of the fabric in each path they took and take.
Then it happens, a crack in the sky. A soundless bleet of purest light from the east and over the under shaded trees it comes, the sun. Every color of earth begins to sing their variant radiance. The grey-blue sky lightens its face with swooping strokes from a fan point brush to true blue. The white and grey being cleaned away by one simple thing, far away. Just like what is seen when you ask her to stop squinting her eyes or when she wears dramatic makeup.
Steam dances seductively upward from each stone and blade of grass, sweating off the dew and wet of moss. We take it in like the earths morning smoke break, wetting our noses in makeout sessions with the earth. Discovering each scent, how it tastes and feels. How each scent sounds, heartfully noting the memories spanning our physical random access. Assigning each one a cluster of sensual attributes, displaying talent like an improvisational bartender in a pipe smoke-filled Irish Speak Easy. Just mixing interesting drinks for the future and for now.
No one ever wants it to end. This spectacle has enough emotion to fill the heart of Hades with love for his brothers. And in my mind, it hasn't even begun yet.
Intentions aside, I simply Love this place.