I went to the edge of the world, an almost endless trek. I looked over, I wondered why I had never seen a picture of it, it is quite impressive. I got my camera out of my pocket, and would you believe it, I dropped it over the edge. Just take my word for it, the edge is very impressive.
There is nothing much wrong with the world,
when surrounded by sleeping cats.
In amber air the fan whirls an off centre rattle twirl, blowing hot air down to the tables. Buzzap goes the glowing blue fly killer again. The waiter leans against the bar, slicks back his hair and tears the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes, a ritual. The evening breeze blows the shutters against their catches. Soon the sun will dip, inviting the waifs and strays to tumble from the hill, to unwind the coils of work.
The ocean is lapping the beach so gently,
very forgiving I thought.
We time travel to the suns previous incarnation, we continue to thrive on mystery energy, we are staying and vibrant, despite the limited energy given. We have travelled for hours in the air, then we travelled for hours in the car, criss crossing the land to be shown where past adventure was had, to where ancestors nested, to where had changed and where had stayed the same. From Half Moon bay to Santa Clara, from Santa Clara to Palo Alto on back to Half Moon bay, then to San Francisco, from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, then back to Half Moon bay. The waves. Though all is thrown at her, all waste, all poisons and death slung into her, still she gives. I believe the Pacific ocean is giving us the vibrancy for continued uninterrupted joy. That, and Stan’s glazed doughnuts for breakfast.
The bush chatters, so I reply, I reassure it that I am good, that the weather is fine. The bush chatters more. I feel that is it’s way of thanks. We chat some more, then the birds fly away.