One day walking hand-in-hand along the shore they discerned a bubbling up, albeit vague, nebulous, nevertheless an orenda it was that gave them pause, cause to feel they came together to make a difference in this place.
At the edge of the water, in the majesty of the sunset with her hand taken in his, a mutual stirring arose and by silent wonder their eyes were directed toward the heavens.
~ ~ ~
now them roar
red light shadows
scurry ere the dawn
incite growling dogs
and rousting sparrows
race destined for a place
where if they could
they wouldn’t Be.
~ ~ ~
I don’t know why I can’t erase my mind’s picture of the place. It comes less often than before, but when it does, it is more vivid, more deeply ingrained and yields to no neglect. I knew I had to go again.
I came upon it first; it was the early sixties, its faded neon lights flashing Angler Motel at the top of the hill where it lay beneath a grey-capped, peach-sherbet sky.
In the parking lot, pot-holed and graveled, I sat solitary in my car trying to decide whether I understood her invitation or if I was foolishly entertaining my inclination to fantasize.
I followed her from the diner, her subtle invitation I inferred. I drove fewer than ten miles, lost her briefly when she topped the hill, and then almost driving past the place myself, I saw her tear-drop tail lights go dim.
I followed, no less assured fate drew me there. Now I waited while she attended matters at the front desk.
I didn’t know her. Or maybe I did. And there was something about this place; solitary atop the hill where lovers’ dreams born here, blow away, sucked up in the wake of speeding tractor-trailers and weary travelers rushing past, pressing on, opting for a better place.
I was older now. Wiser too. Yet here I was again, transplanted amidst neon vacancies and croaking frogs, immersed in the wistfulness of Elusive Butterfly, whispers from the AM dial. Waiting. Wondering . . . when would she be here too?
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