For eight years, nine months, and twenty-nine days,  I have stood in a certain spot gazing across the park in which I live,  watching the setting sun .  Ah, to be sure, the receding orb did not stare across the levee at me on every one of those eventful days.  But many of them found me pausing, just here, to lean against my car and watch the fire blaze itself across the willing horizon.

After one year in this place, I unpacked a suitcase from the final weeks of my intermittent stays in Kansas City.

After two years, I had procured a driver’s license with the California seal and a Sacramento County voter registration card.

After three years, I hunkered down in the protective bubble of these fifteen acres to endure a world pandemic with a handful of neighbors.  I kept working, but here at home, we greeted each other from behind masks and moved our weekly dinners outside to the central meadow.

Another three years fell upon the cutting room floor to unveil the art collective that I started principally to plant my flag and nurture my personal legacy.  Did I open the place just to have somewhere local to sell my book?  I won’t deny at least some partial truth in that contention.

The calendar has nearly turned its pages on another three years.   Last night, I rested my wooden walking stick against my dusty car.  I scooted my tired legs further down the fender, and raised my eyes to the tree line.  The amber glow outlined the spareness of the autumn branches.  Cool air surrounded me.  I took a photograph of the sun as it slipped below the distant unseen curve of the San Joaquin.  Soft darkness wrapped itself like a luscious swath of cashmere around my aging body.  I listened for some sound to keep me standing, waiting, watching.  Hearing nothing, nonetheless I lingered still.  

Mugwumpishly tendered.

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Late October
Sara Teasdale, 1884–1933

Listen, the damp leaves on the walks are blowing
With a ghost of sound;
Is it a fog or is it a rain dripping
From the low trees to the ground?

If I had gone before, I could have remembered
Lilacs and green afternoons of May;
I chose to wait, I chose to hear from autumn
Whatever she has to say.