A Night To Watch The Stars
Night comes . . .
Slowly . . .
Gently . . .
Like a comfort, a blanket fall
i
n
g
upon your toes to knees to expectant nose . . .
Across your eyes . . .
it roams . . .
Dancing fireflies . . .
light the skies . . .
Capture-worthy . . .
take note prithee . . .
A still wisp, a chuckle of a breeze whisks by through the rustle of the hushing lush leaves . . .
Cool . . .
Retelling stories of the sky and how it gleams so gray these days and ev’nings spun so by and by . . .
Breeze . . .
at ease . . .
A heartbeat creeps, pulses in fingers drawn taut to please . . .
No moon . . .
s’too soon . . .
Look up and ponder the artist’s brush . . .
Leaves fill the sky like starlight . . .
So bright . . .
Squint and the swaying branches dance to an unheard melody of far away . . .
rhythmic beats catch the breeze inside, at bay . . .
Look down around and blinking away the blurry trees resumes to focus the life of a dusk all abloom in us . . .
Dreams must feel this way . . .
fully hazed and still falling in motion to be saved . . .
a haze of ways so long . . .
blurry dreams and wishes like a song . . .
A whisk, a breeze like cars to pass . . .
This is a night to watch the stars gleam like glass.
What to write?
Can’t figure out what to write? Write about one of the hardest things to capture, and still one of the most intriguing subjects . . . Write what you observe at the moment, what you see, how you see, who you see, why . . . where. O the sweet factor of the where . . . ;)
The man and the dog . . .
Soft, this soul appears . . . a tall dog, thin, saunters on the sidewalk in t-clack t-clack pairs of shuffling scurries. His brow – the man – looks held up, like a puppeteer’s strings pluck each eyebrow to wander, jumping in a silent sigh of content. Smiling, he walks along in a hobbling manner, the white fur of the hound sneakily shifting by the man’s pretzel legs. The man looks down and in a boyish manner, lays an outstretched palm on the dog’s flip flopping ears that lay down their towers for the moment. The tongue of the hound punctures a hole in its panting mouth. The two stand, the man happy, the dog sniffing. The man like a boy stares ahead at the oncoming traffic of thoughts, pondering future steps just ahead. All the while, his pay of a hand falls on the hound. He takes a hobble forward, tall socks falling a little lower above his red chucks. The hound’s patchy snout resumes sniffing after a break to stare at his leash trailing away in the grip of his companion. The boy of a man wipes his paw to his red hat . . . sunglasses shade a sure smile behind their cover . . . enduring, no – endearing . . . that smile . . . like something’s gone missing, but totally unnoticed, he walks away in bliss, holding contentment like a little boy does that moldy cookie – just as good as any – from the cookie jar.
I thought magic was just make believe
He blinked. Another thought trailing through his head like a rabbit burrowing down a bunny hole.
Through his eyes the whole story unrolls in a glance of telling magic. Everything looks different from here . . .
Brown, dark, coal-colored brown are these two alike. Lively, to tell the short end, and brave, to tell the long.
He blinked.
An other young man perched upon the other side of a window caught his blinks. The door slithered open under the hand of a hot day, uncurling waves of windy cold coming to meet our blinking friend.
This “other”, of origins untold, met this entering soul with a charming smile . . . disarming. Other, as we’ve named him, comes to grips with the interesting being a few paces forth. Other puts a finger on a deck of cards, his wandering hand patting the stream of numbers and faces oddly falling into place.
Michael blinked.
He blinked again.
Assembling fact from observation rivets such eyes as his. They spin inside his head.
“Care to sit?” Other’s handsome features dip, kindly revealing his intrigue of the visitor.
Michael’s head shook, cordially accepting the invitation with an eager air, completely enthralled by the cards in the young man’s hand.
“You like magic?” Other’s sky blue eyes dance as the pitter patter of card feet flies through the air.
Michael’s eyes respond more than the shaking of his cranium speaks. Eyes, the brown duo, shriek a pleasing yes as they crease.
“Okay . . . watch closely.”
Other waves a few cards from the stained table, clearing his throat with the simplest of coughs. Michael’s tense expression holds itself still, a little furrow shadowing his brow in tender lines.
His brown eyes squint.
The card disappeared.
Vanished.
Gone.
Excitement.
Intrigue.
Wonder.
The screw on Michael’s jaw unwinds slowly as if to give a leash to his speechless tongue. Nothing forms words.
A warm laugh unfurls from Other’s throat with a, “You like that, huh?”
With a few open-mouthed shakes of his head, Michael proceeds to keep vigil of the deck in Other’s meek hands.
“Okay . . . watch closely.”
Michael’s intent stare breaks from the card for a moment, traveling up the young man’s highlighted face with such wonder as to stir magic to its highest momentum . . . tumbling magic into reality. Other’s eyelashes cascade over such eyes as were unique to blue . . . soft and full of another world.
Michael’s sight dashes back to the lively display efflorescing from the cunning fingers of the magician.
But, what makes this exchange so special is that this character called Other, though obscurely outlined, is quite well-known to you. Though, you may wonder as to where you met him . . . in some distant land . . . as if by magic.
And, what makes this exchange truly magical is that this character called Michael—
The card disappeared.
Vanished.
Gone.
No questions asked.
Excitement.
Wonder.
Other’s lips purse in a simple simper.
“I thought . . . magic . . . was just make believe.” Michael’s mouth moves.
Other’s eyes close in light of a wonderful smile.
And, what makes this exchange truly magical is that this character called Michael—sees through autistic eyes.
Through his eyes the whole story unrolls in a glance of telling magic. Everything looks different from here . . .
Brown, dark, coal-colored brown are these two alike. Lively, to tell the short end, and brave, to tell the long.
He blinked.
Click…shrickkkk…skritttee!
Glide . . . the wintry bite of frost collides with your raw, red nose. The bumps of the ice creep up on each blade of movement that passes over its frozen fingertips. You look up, veiling your eyes for a second in a blink, and then . . .
What happens? You fall, you fail? You fly, you try? What happens?
Cold . . . the balance of the rink careens before you, leaving your skates rickety rackety clackety tapping on the remains of zamboni-ridden ice. What once smoothly gleamed in the rays of light now lay under pyramids and shards of icy slush.
Listen . . . click . . . click–clack . . . shrickkk . . . shrackkt . . . skritttttttttee! . . . the exclamation on the ice slides across your vision and into your ears, breaking the pieces of a once so echoey silence that modeled itself as an ice dancer. Dance on the ice. What’s it feel like to you?
soccah
Bursting forth, the ball taps my supple instep as it cascades through the shivering grass. Push, look up, pivot, aim; fire! The jolt of impact sets my leg tingling as my body soars into the air to find itself settled on the ground a moment hence, two eyes wandering upward to catch sight of the cross. The ball splits the air, spinning, turning, drowning; then, it murmurs as the whispering net wraps its arms around the sphere.
Dancing with a soccer ball
Have you ever done that? It’s the greatest feeling in the world; it’s like you let your feet go and the dance is so fluid, you feel like you could almost fly (corny as it sounds). :) But, dancing with a soccer ball is like breezing with the wind…pretty much my favorite hobby: soccer. :)
