Sonatina...

I

The sun is bright, and hot, today as I walk. The leaves on some of the trees have only just begun to change color. A lazy breeze blows ever so slightly.

A mother and daughter, new to the area, stop by the bench on which I sit, and make polite conversation. The daughter is mesmerized by the intricate pattern of a pine cone. Having asked for directions, the mother takes her child by hand and begins the walk down the lane. I wave good-bye and wish them well. They moved from the big city with cement sidewalks and mass transportation to life here in the foothills---dirt roads and a Whistle-stop Express that does not run at week's end. As I watch mother and daughter struggle through the blistering heat, a prayer for their well-being makes itself heard in my head. Mother and daughter fade into the distance; light of the sun in my eyes.

II

Bottled water refreshes me. I drink, then continue my walk. I take advantage of available pockets of shade, as I make my own way down the lane to Main Street. The antique-fare dealers pack up their treasures of forgotten memories, and found lives. Having no money, I navigate the honeycomb of activity and seek out the calm at the top of the hill. It looks over the entire town. Trees as far as the eye can see, dappled with the occasional small house amidst the vast green. Six cars pass by in a row. Too much traffic for me. Increased sense of purpose lengthens my stride. Further up the hill, towards quiet, I glide. I've often imagined returning home to the big city. But, Thomas Wolfe had the definitive last word on that. And, he was right.

III

Canopy of branches creates hallowed space; a sacred hallway through arches of trees. I follow as I am led. Further up, further up, I am Called. The sound of rustling leaves on the ground, background accompaniment, as I travel the woven tapestry of dream-scape. I spy with my eye an acorn by my sandaled-foot. Holding the acorn, turning it round in my hand, I realize I have found a true treasure. Priceless, though it was free. Acorn in my shirt pocket, I continue up the hill, to see what I shall see.

IV

To my left, wild oleander towers overhead. Its white blossoms wilt, but manage to hold on, and remain. "Beware the poison oak!" A neighbor calls out, through open windows. Form just barely discernible through yellow lace. Once again, I stop to drink water, then make my way home, over hill, and through the woods. With full force, I cast the acorn afar into the field of wheat and grass. Perhaps, it will take root, and grow into a mighty warrior. I roar as I run!