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Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Birkelunden Bemusing

The searing, blue sky in the middle of the afternoon is one of the simplest pleasures one can get out of life.  Especially after an endless parade of overcast mornings drifting into disheartening, starless nights.  The first clear day, in some time, can catch you off guard, as it explodes from the dawn.  Nothing is quite as beautiful as the warmth of the first sunrays, as they lick your face.  Those drops of cancer-causing agents invoke an effervescent buzz in our souls that resonates regardless of how tight the crotchety, dry grip of old man winter. 

I am happy today.

Much as the reminder from the sun can remind you that three other seasons can exist, so, too, can a letter from an old friend. 

He seemed well.

The children are getting out of school now.  I can hear their delirious screams echoing down the narrow streets and corridors.  It’s as if they want to see if their voices can reach over the entrapping buildings that line the streets.  Their day is now and, by letting all of creation know, it can be shared and maintained.  The tram rattles along its metallic path; creaking and screeching at each turn and stop.  I can feel it nearing the station without seeing it from my window here; its heavy pressing crushes everything that can feel.  As if on cue, I can hear the trees shaking and swaying in the oncoming rush.  

I close my eyes and lean into the sun’s dalliance into the room, courtesy the parted blinds. 

I feel light on my face, but not warmth, the window sees to it that what is outside is kept out.  Yet, I hear the ratcheting of the tram doors and then the clanging crash of their closing. 

There are still many hours before my love will return home.  I don’t know if I should count their fickle, wanton minutes or lay my mind to other tasks to drown out the late afternoon.  Though, the sun is so bright today, I have to squint to even look toward the window.  Some days cannot be ignored or attended with mindless duty.  They must be lived and filled with purpose and balance.

I am outside now.

The wind still has a touch of winter and I need to pull my jacket tightly around me.  The stealthy, ever-present ice has begun to relinquish its domain upon the sidewalks; its crackling retreat feels my ears as I make way toward the bridge.  Beneath the cement expanse, the river has not yet heeded the call of the walkways above as it lays frozen and unmoving.  The ducks clatter upon its stately cold surface, bumping into each other, stamping their webbed feet in futile protest.  The buildings, nestled along its width, splinter, ever so slightly, from the relentless pressure.  No matter the season, the river exerts its’ force upon the edifices foolishly constructed upon nature’s runway in garish and avarice want. 

I head back inside.

The lush, brilliant blue chosen for this day for this world that hangs above our world is slowly being put away.  The fiery, cataclysm of dusk has commenced as if the world were awaiting it.  We were all caught off-guard and not quite ready to be without.  Though, time and fate have plans we know not of.  Birds flew overhead, a great distance away, their calls lost to the heavens.  Cars, buses, trains, and trams all began their sojourn from the city to the great many suburbs that surrounded this town so that its numbers almost out counted the town from which it derived.  They pulsed and pushed away, far beyond that which I could see from my window.  For I could only sense their treks from known routine, the sounds and sights were already being swallowed by the approaching night.

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