The Great Firefly of the eastern range, rising and metamorphosing from this lime bean, plastic-like texture, to a strange gold, and then this fantastic magmatic red, and then splaying down the ridgelines, burning the granite and blue schist–a perpetual burning, as an Oseberg ship burial–it flings infinitely, although sometimes lingers, as if it were fizzled out already, as if we are dwellers of shallow oasis waters, as if we are biding our time, binoculars focused intently on our ebbing moon, as if the compasses now point to a true west, as if our forefathers knew this all along, but wanted us to have hosted such an affair for ourselves.
Well, I thought the pianist was decent. And those people seemed pretty nice.
So like when the sky begins these early rising changes, like an oak leaf in the fall, and the wind breathes gently on your neck like a sleeping love, and if we can sigh a heavy sigh at this display of grandiloquent kindling, of G-d, and the lightness of existence–a soft patch of sage–of having our tracks filled in with tiny windburned snowflakes, of wearing your father’s watch, to keep this time, to be never more alive in time, to howl off the highest of bluffs, or the lowest of valley, or to be infuriated at man’s imposition, this constant tempo, and to yelp silently underwater at the coral, and know that these ships sank for something.
Please, G-d, let it be for something.
Really, I have no qualms with how our trains run. But I do think there are those voluptuously pink evening skies that cool and try to fight off the darkness, and then appear these stardust-burdened blacknesses that force your sophomoric mind to gander and finally come to terms–that the world is a black tie occasion, and that we must remember our etiquette, for every meal can be as ambrosial as the last, and that the eventide matinee is always, always playing.
Just for us.