Wakeful Dreams

The clouds rolled in along the edges of the horizon tonight in lines, like row after row of white waves lapping against the idyllic, sandy rim of a tranquil lagoon. And Duncan and I, strolling as we were through the Linden-scented night, soon forgot the sky and the setting sun, and found ourselves, instead, looking up as though from a comfortable blue depth, at the mirror place where water and air meet.  A mismatched small fat girl in a pink and blue stripped tank-top bobbed along in a current, the frills of her purple skirt reaching out as she passed, like the arms of some colorful anemone grasping at daylight. A bunny scuttled past, darting under a low hedge like a crab seeking shelter under a mottled, water-kissed rock. The clouds were like great ripples fanning out into wide circles except where their line was broken by the silver flash of one, no two--three!-- silver dolphins, sleek and perfect, their arc puncturing the surface and dragging it after them as they dove behind the mountains, following the sun to the end of another day.

On evenings as quiet and serene as this, with my dog at my side, the sun slipping low and my mind racing with wakeful dreams, I remember the lines of Wallace Stevens and wish that just once I could capture a moment forever by writing something as perfect:

And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Deeplier, Deeplier

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
(Wallace Stevens, The Region November)

I have not had this much hair in a long time. It's not long hair, but it's long by Curt Standards. For the past twelve years or so, after long college hair and a rather gruesome Marty Stouffer beard, I practically shaved my head and have kept my hair close-cropped ever since. This past Fall I decided to grow it out, just to see how long I could go before hacking it off again (it's never more than a month or two) and I've recently rediscovered what it's like to have the wind blow through my hair rather than across my slowly expanding forehead.

Tonight my hair was all over the place. The wind was tremendous, shaking the trees, roaring through the branches, erasing the clouds from the sky in minutes, leaving only faint smears, like smudges of chalk on a blackboard. The park was littered with sticks and dragging Duncan through it was challenge. There were so many differing agendas on our walk tonight that I'm still not sure which direction we went in. I was plowing ahead, leaning into the gale, squinting through the shrapnel of once-leaves, pursing my lips to keep from inhaling bark; Duncan wanted only to stop and chew or chase stray leaves that whipped past us like tiny bouncing cars; my hair wanted to do it's own thing, puff up big or blow back flat.

We forced our way home, stalking two bunnies on the way, and collapsed in heaps on the couch, wind-whipped and tired. It'll be good sleep tonight.