Stars clustered together in great threads, drawing a picture in the heavens. One thinks of threads as making a cloth, a fabric of some kind. That is what the stars did in the grand stage of spacetime. As they twinkled they made a music that came not to the ears, yet to the soul. Somehow, though we watched it form far, far away amid the constellations - it was happening inside us too. We were being rewoven, remade, and the stars had everything to do with it.
Neon bright came spring, unwithered by antiquity's reposing glance. Leap! Frolic! Dance! Old and new 'twas the blossom, evolution with a plastic sheen. Bright colours did pop! Birdsong did tweet-blare! Flowers did give so joyously to soot-mobbed air. One step. Two steps. Three steps, four. Leaving doth arrive. Spring up those stairs with ne'er a glance o' reply.
In the car headlamps the blizzard became a chaotic constellation. Through the all-squared forest of high-rises, along the wide avenues, the wind sang winter’s song. The air had grown teeth that day and nibbled those brave enough to venture the streets. Perhaps on summer days this place is heady with the aroma of street food, yet now it is only the mixture of ice and gasoline. Ted re-wrapped his scarf around his neck, tugged his hat to almost cover his eyes, and trudged toward the cafe.
The city streets were a washed out grey. The sky was a rock-pounded denim. Birdsong trickled out in dented waves, as if feathered friends cried this way. Engines started and stopped. Horns honked. Crowds, heads low, kept their eyes on concrete cracks. No whispers. No chat. Either yelling or nothing at all. Society, society, wherefore art thou society?
Simon picked his way over the rocky path, both his ankles pulsing with pain. The scree ribbon twisted over hills that had not borne grain for generations. All it gave was dust to any wind cruel enough to scream. His eyes were set on the horizon, on a lonesome tree, its sparse leaves becoming a mid-summer dandruff. He trudged, his footsteps with neither accompaniment of birdsong nor floral scent.
From high altitude the lake was a blue spot in endless mountain grey-greens; yet, with feet on the ground, it was a poet’s daydream. The air was a hum of dragonflies, the grass a riot of asters and, in a wide arcing circle, grew softly waving evergreens. In the seasons of ambient air, the fragrance of that valley was a timeless fingerprint. It spoke of days centuries past in the same whisper as future’s promise. It was our sanity, that place, in a world of mad-hatters.