treasuring

what does it say that the leaf drew me into the projection - the motion of it, perhaps; the leafness of it. and i wonder what the trained artist would say that it says- about the work. about this viewer's eye. watching the leaf fall again and again miles & hours away, and i'm there. standing alone again while the world spins round and paul rucker is reaching in gently and taking my breath. i checked my tears with fierce respect then, so surprised by my strength for sitting with it all as i stood. the shock & greater challenge? walking away and into the night and into the bubbles on the street and the beauty next door. would a schooled critic name it indulgence- allowing that a leaf might fall from a lynching tree? a lure predicting my sentimentality? or does the leaf predict the predictability of it all. our nature. and the cello repeating and repeating till outside, the urban buzz overtakes, and moments- random moments sweetly begin their assault on eyes and on ears.

i escaped to a high stool in a high window having had my fill of air and art - my art walk consisting of just three galleries in august. eyes dry but distracted, impatient with the gatherings and pretty frocks & hugging in the halls. gut full of empty, needing to write, needing to eat. a plate of spice and a glass of calm, and a pencil and envelope and window -

when a good distance below, invisible as those others had been- those whose stories were nestling in my gut with the drink, nestling on the page - down there near the bus stop i watched his story leaf out. a black man spotted something black on the other side of the cyclone fencing - in the brambles of blackberry & summer spent sweet pea and hip-high golden wheat. as he climbed the fence, the train tracks below the hill beyond the fence and a train that might come added risk to moment, and my dinner lost it's heat. the moment before, sometime before thursday became first thursday: a crime. a backpack stolen, rooted through, thrown in the proverbial bushes. forgotten. in the moment, my urban contemporary naturalist names it treasure. fashion, elegance, artistic tension hum two stories below on my side of the street. on his, something is left in one of the pockets, and he has the time. headphones! backpack back in it's underneath place,cheating the train tracks, not tearing his pants on the way back over the fence, graceful and alone there, smile growing as he fits the treasure in his ears, makes his way to safety, so full of gratitude, reaching up to the sky to thank jesus, invisible to the bubbles on the street - only jesus.

and me.

his eyes meet mine up high in my window, and his smile grows, and mine does too, and he reaches up and my hand is touching the glass and his hand is touching my hand through the window.

who was i kidding. the tears came before the thought.