Nobody's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Saturday, October 22, 2005

horsehoe bend

when i think of running loose with childhood friends among the roads & arteries, the wooded lots & open expanses of the as yet undeveloped horseshoe bend area, i think of nervy, experimental anarchy, intoxicating skittishness, a ducking & dodging & dashing rebellion within the arena of single childhood nights. i think of being one with a strange group, a group that will never again be, but that this night is strong in its alliance, so powerful, each of us taking turns following and leading, instinctual and guessing, sprinting across highway & ditch & into a stand of trees, disappearing into trees, up and away from the approaching headlights, quick leaps for cover, rolling into a ball in shadow, hiding, car travelling by leaving us in its wake with giddy, unconscious belly laughter, and then suddenly the eyes and senses alert again to the continuing adventure, the drama at hand. up and running again, wild in the night. on and on and on, until, from the shadow of forest, we come to a quiet, chest-thumping rest at the edge of a communal, manmade lake, a massive clearing improbable in the wood, an amphitheatre lit to a fine glow by the moon overhead. soon, of course, all the land in this region is to be cleared, like the plot of land in which this small lake rests. communities are to be developed, lots apportioned & sold & developed & razed & resold & redeveloped. horseshoe bend will come to be known as horseshoe bend parkway. but tonight yet, this night, there are no houses on the edge of a cleared forest expanse, there are no prying eyes or sleeping families. here there is only us, and the sky overhead is clear, bright, several clouds drifting soundless and that cut piece of moon, images given back to us doubled in the calm surface of the small, square lake, and the feeling is that we stand on an edge with an endlessness overhead and an endlessness below. until stones are tossed into the water, stones have to be be tossed into the water because stones are at hand and the water is so placid, inviting disruption, and the water's surface ripples, the reflected images tossing and glinting a'crest ripple, when kitzi shouts and the whole thing starts anew and we are once again too loud, to caught up in our play to notice anything but ourselves.