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epistle log 3hirty 4our
lost in autumn
cool weather and nearsun always seem to make the air a little clearer, and everything a little more intense. breezes more willful, shadows steeper, sounds richer. the air, the universal medium, becomes more receptive. color, tone, pitch all amplified beyond summer's dull humidity
billiards alone in an empty house slowly dissipating the static charge of intellect, caffeine not yet quitting its course in my veins. walking home, the wind pulls at the loose edges of my shirt, giving substance to my dreams of flight. watching wet spots grow on the sidewalk as the rain escorts me home. peering through the sunglasses on a rainy day, everything seems right for a second, softly filtered to fit the mood.
front porch reclining with hamlet in my left and a slowly emptying jug of orange juice in my right. jug empties, laertes and hamlet meet, and the rain intensifies. a low hum, preceding a hiss, creeps from the west. the air explodes in horizontal rain and marbles of hail as the parking lots erupt in choirs of alarms
it's all over in minutes, leaving only piles of hail against fences and a leaky ceiling between two floors. the leaves are still for the first moment of the day, and i stand at the back door, watching the waves of rain slowly fade to nothing, leaving everything with a shine of newness
the rain recreates the surface, and the sun awakens to add sheen to shine. a quick and redemptive, beautiful violence, chaos breaking free of our crude mathematical scribblings, reminding me of the immediate, necessary truths.
there's a hint of mortality in the air . . .
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