MapsThere is a thing in dance music, as old as rock and roll, bent and twisted by Mingus, probably more ancient. The trope is this: there is a beat, a beat, a beat, and then two. It is hackneyed, cliche; like roses in poetry, or the terrible crimes of fashion that we commit again and again for fun, it can pull air from rooms and turn grooves to dust. Sometimes, though, it can still transcend.
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From the back porch, I can sometimes see stars up there, when the skies are kind and clear. Here being where it is, though, there is often a dark deck to keep away the shine. At times like these I can turn to the hill sides, connecting the dots of the porch lights and street lamps to find new creatures.
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The sun plays tricks, too: it is the time of year when the fading glow of the day carves through the hilltops just right to bathe those houses in warm golden light, transforming all the simple frame houses to ancient habitats, ringing the agora of the ball field.
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The green is carefully creeping up from the soil on the commute, and in the garden, too; earlier, the happy voices of children came in through the window from the street outside. These are cues of Spring and strong ones, but it is the staccato tapping of drops on the panes, the mad flashbulbs dividing the sky, and the playful rustle of warm winds that have again told of the turning, again made the season real.
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All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Mail accepted for the bears in the basement. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.