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I'm back at the old canal waiting for the sunrise to sneak its way through the lovely chaos of clouds making the beginning of the day difficult and fascinating. The sap of my veins hasn't dried up quite yet. Summer still has some blood flowing in it, and before it's over I'll break open the sky's lock to find the red horizon. The canal will continue to flow a while longer from its river source far upstream until they shut it off and let the sprinklers run dry and the backyard gardens wither. Until then, I continue to wait for the promised information behind the clouds, for a clearing of sky where you and I will happen upon the dawn come round again.
The calm of this sunrise scene masks the shock, terror, and laughter that lingers, muted, in the dawn. The quiet boats here anchored contain a cargo of trembling carried over from the big bang. A calamity of wealth afflicts the shopping cart of dawn: the remembrance of the fading season, remembered as if gone even before it has left, loss and grief anticipated. Yet in the fading echo of the explosion of summer there is a substratum of mirth, a settling of the earth into a placid smile and hum and heart vibrating like a drum. The harbor's undulations and the way the boats bob in the waves tug at the harbormaster's heart and incite the thought that we are all the same harbormaster and the harbor and the sunrise.
the tipping point of dawn like a boomerang returning but flying just beyond the reach of your outstretched fingers as the morning proceeds in unostentatious yellow the bright hem of a dark skirt of clouds above the eastern horizon concealing credit for the accomplishment and only reveling humbly in the golden changing of the night into day of the day into many days of the summer season suddenly into awareness of yellow autumn coming to cool and calm your dreams prepare you for winter and the long dark of the distant sun like that boomerang then having sailed infinitely far and a pendulum that inevitably returns
Each person is a genius — extruded from the collective unconscious, the family of things and non-things burgeoning into the light of morning, the lovely light of the dawn. Imagine a boat anchored through the night now awakening with a family on board ready to break their fast and hoist their sails, each member playing a part in the yin and yang of the embarkment into the final joys of the summer tapering down to its end, the current and wind ready to take them towards the ocean, towards the glowing horizon. And beyond that, day and night proceeding towards the autumn, the falling leaves and harvest brought in and shipped to distant ports, infinitely distant ports, yet each infinitely near.
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