I walk along the sidewalk through this California town. Definitely urban.
There have been light storms in these parts. Elsewhere, snow. But the metropolitan of every kind of person squeezed into these city streets cannot keep this place down for more than half a week. Positivity, I would like to think, is too strong in this state, particularly, this neighborhood. With people of every color, shade, and creed.
I do fear though. Healthily, as every suspicious individual would. Know thyself, then you know thy people. A mix of many attitudes and approaches toward reality.
Anyhow, back on the sidewalk. There had been lots of wind, rain, and slight storm. Branches have now fallen everywhere that there is a tree along the path. But this does promote stronger growth in the future. The trees are now carrying less weight. Adjusting to the new normal.
A few hundred feet further, the sun shines brightly. Now we’re back with the town square, the restaurants, the noise. Traffic waking up and pushing on yet another soft Sunday. A day of rest; how writing gives one chance to reminisce upon local current news. Pressing Submit though, the world digesting my going out on a limb.
But I have much to tell. Like how the waking hour, we are created newer and stronger. Hopefully. The world bending back to normal. The power had gone out, and now all are trying to get back to base.
What am I in this? What is my role? I am detective of the subtle poetics. I am the rehabilitation of the universe. I am the destruction, but like the wind toward the birch trees, tall, white and breaking, in seven months time, my news will be not like the raw cold wind. But will be the tranquil relaxation of Summer’s everglow, like a firefly, dancing when it finds out its’ color mixes and matches well with everything its nature has adapted. And how the scene is emptier yet fuller, after the dragonfly has moved on, once again.
Prose
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