late autumn eve
not many a late november day I can stand outside in shorts, not that this is balmy weather but this is not the bite of winter, by all accounts a miserable day, stuck inside watching the rain, on call for work so I was distracted by customers rather than to dwell on the mopey grey of the day, only now, as I venture outside do I see the pools and puddles from passing mild storm, and, oddly, I am oddly enamored by the scene, the major maple trees are totally barren of leaves, but my japanese maple still boasts deep red extensions, framed against the heavens, well, framed against my porch light, there is no magical moonlight out tonight, so man made light will suffice (and does), as I look to the trees, the droplets reflect tiny colors into themselves, the gentle drip of remnants of rain collecting and falling to the ground, some decide to pay a more personal visit on my crown and shirt, I don’t mind, I listen for the sounds, there is the low hum of human din, almost like rushing water but less wild, a distant horn of a train, somehow always seems to complement the fog, this is not silence, no, there is a constant level of low noise, which in a way, is soothing, the occasional car wooshes up the street, headlights screaming against the whole backdrop, an unwanted interloper but only a momentary disruptor, back to that low hum, maybe it is the major roadway just there past the last street light, I can see the streaks like some particle collider speeding by, something like time lapse sped up film, a blur and still, I imagine if I would be more satisfied in the middle of some pasture, in the middle of veritable nowhere, but no, this will do fine, the home of my birth, the land my feet have known to walk, my eyes grown up on, my ears the familiar, and on the other side of the world, or universe someone else is taking the time to stand … and absorb in what it means to be home.