Rusty Attempt to Start Again Amidst All This

Well, now it’s been nearly two years since I have written, and we find our world in the midst of a “pandemic.” I am out of practice. My writing is choppy and unsure of itself. Yesterday, as I rode my bicycle home from the school where I teach and where my own children will someday be attending- the school that will now be closed for the next four weeks, perhaps more, I noticed a dark mist resting on and below the mountains in the west. It drew my attention each time the streets allowed an unobstructed view - most of the larger east-west blocks, where no tall buildings stood in the way. When I turned right, toward the mountains, onto the street perpendicular to my own, a sharp stream of light illuminated a portion of that dark mist and the mountains just behind it, pouring down from the heavens. The color was orange or rose or peach with golden hints- more red than a honey bee- like the sun but softer, touchable. There was a sharp line between the dark mist and the wash of light. I did not stop and stare, or take the time to observe in stillness. I haven’t done that in some time. Times like these the stream of the future coming toward us is blinding, deafening, immediate, a wave through a flooding mine hundreds of feet within the earth, and perfectly harmonious, a Caribbean clear picture of all we are manifesting as a human race.