The bridges, old and new, hold themselves still enough for the clumsy fingers that yearn to record their majesty. I fumble with my phone, having abandoned the little Canon several years ago. Now and then, I get something worth keeping.
But the birds elude me. The swans arch their necks and duck beneath the vines. I glimpse a hawk atop a tall pole and slow, easing down my window as noiselessly as possible. Still it turns, drops a bead on my car, and spreads its wings. I can only gaze in wonder as it cuts across the otherwise unbroken blue of the summer sky.
A few feet later, an egret suns on a rock amid a pool of ripples in the slough. It must be the tick of my timing belt that alerts it to my approach. It, too, takes flight. I pass without pause.
The bridges lift or swing every time I near them. I pull to the side of the road or ease in line. I can open the door for all that metal cares; I could stand in the highway. I could holler at the thing to wait while I take a few more bursts. It rises at the command of someone inside its little house and will not lower for the mere pleasure of thwarting me or to escape my glare. I am of no consequence to the bridges, nor to the electronics which control them, nor to the navigational systems of the vessels to which they yield.
I am out in the world, but I am not of it. Its creatures shy from me. The human structures crouching within it do what they will without regard to my whims. Thus do I pass each day, my shadow leaving no mark, my tears no stain, and the silent cry of my prayer fading even as the wind falls.
The leaves shimmy above my house. I raise my face and let that air settle on my cheeks. Many years fell on the cutting room floor while I hid within my unkempt dwelling. Now I travel outside its confines but gingerly, wistfully. I move in silence.. I stare as nature dances, as humanity builds, as the colors change and new life emerges. I wait in noiseless anticipation, while the hawk soars and the river roars and the tug boat passes in the deep channel of the Sacramento River.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
Dear friends: It’s that time of year again, when I ask you to consider donating to Rose Brooks Center Inc. in honor of my birthday. I’m running my annual Facebook Fundraiser or you can click HERE to donate directly on their site. Thank you. If you or anyone you know is struggling with family violence, please reach out for help. In the KC area, call Rose Brooks at 816-861-6100. Anywhere else in the country, please see THIS PAGE for a local referral or the National Domestic Violence Hotline. You are not alone. There is always a way.
