Sunday morning is a divine interlude, if you are not in retail. The world slows down, at least enough to reflect upon itself. I assume my customary spot upon a bench at Kracklauer Park, facing the creek. The creek banks sculpted with sofa sized flag stone, is a repository of wildness in the otherwise manicured landscape. Across the creek is a state-of-the-art children's playground, a raised pavilion for public events, a grassy expanse, that in weekday afternoons transforms into a soccer field, and two fenced in tennis courts. All of the amenities have their use but I offer my gratitude that the village retained the wildness of the creek. The creek, seeming to emerge, from a subterranean place, is life for minnows, frogs, water vegetation, living beneath the surface. The variety of wildflowers and the plants that we would call "weeds" looks like home, a place of shelter and food for the birds, finches and sparrows, as well as the tiny mammals that come and go out of our sight under the ground cover. What if you could take a census of mice, moles and voles inhabiting the creek banks?
I biked to this place intending to write a poem about the current season of politics. Instead my spirit is moved to write words in homage to the beneficent swath of wildness in front of me. Politics is usually a depressing matter, the unending tug-of-war, that makes and breaks our civitas. Particularly depressing is the clear dearth of honorable men and women willing to step forward to humbly contribute. This election season, is our autumn of bombast, as all Parties send in their clowns.
So, I write this respectful deference to nature, to her patterns, her reliable renewal, her constancy, knowing that she is our mother, always welcoming us home.
(So this is not about window cleaning. On the other hand everything is related to everything else...)
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