Armageddon skies…make good sunsets.
There is no name for the color of the sun this morning. We behold it in the rarest regalia—Zeus in Fuchsia— climbing through thick vapor, pulled like taffy through the gap–just its size- between a rising sea of cedars and a low ceiling of clouds.
He did not pause in his ascent, but he seemed to, held for lingering moments by our own minds savoring the perfection–of the fit, of the color, of the moment.
A perfect moment, free of meaning.
…While whole states west of us rage on fire, we, who find ourselves out of drought for the first time in years, wake dazed in a smoky peace, which yet vibrates with sub-sonic foreboding and the hysteric hiss of traffic hurtling, with a heightened hubris and urgency it seems, through the thicker air, the thicker swarm of unthunk thoughts:
Focus on the horizon, the future; stay oblivious to oblivion. Arm yourself against Armageddon with whatever you have!
…with a poem.
and then, weary of the swirl of words, I turn over upon their stream, face the sky, float, following them down the drain, to liberation.
And then wake again into the highway’s harsh and endless song, but resting in center now, the sun shining from within, amid the sonic smoke….