Decades ago I
saw a French movie once, about the moment of total silence and its demarcation
when it appeared to switch-on-a-dime into the incremental beginnings of the
rustlings of the new day.
Living in my
box canyon in the wilds of New Mexico I discovered that moment. I always wanted
to contemplate on it--study it, expand it--capture it and hold it still, then
pull it apart like cotton batting wads, or cumulus clouds, but there was no
time to do so--it was but a moment--a mili second, a nano second--as quick as
that nighttime lightening flash across my meadow that lit brilliantly long
enough to create a hunger to see more.
Do you know
what I mean?
I don’t
know. It was so momentary. Unable to grasp its girth in any
extended manner--I could only sense it, observe it for that fleeting time. It took my breath away though, and
equally so, left me with a deep sense of loss--as if a trick? As if
there were no markings to track--only the dash between two missing dates on a tombstone.
And no one who knew the deceased.
1-29-16
