Summer Curve (Bill's Musings)

Summer day knows, perhaps, the probable parabolical curve on the axis of its own act(s) its

path, who’s end I will not seek, though It may. I come close to the search, in squirrel like

intuitions, to the descriptive presence of Its (summer day) indecipherable shape and

configuration, and then as if spading for long buried, lost, nuts, give over - - warm turbid nights,

sunrises in mist, sunsets in humid haze, fields of flocculent clouds weighted, flowing, heat

collapsing under its own weight full of corpulent vapor warmed over the Gulf.

In pyramid days with their Ibis headed god, they strived to circumscribe and measure the

circadian circle with the square. With ancient prehensive piety, there was laid out a measure of a

living of - ( or is it in?), an unbreakable order, passing time, incarnated being, seen, heard, felt,

experienced in sprouting life, grains, garlic, locust, wine and vinegar (wine gone too far), the

flow and motion inescapable, the life dispensable, seemingly.

The story of a summer day - I come close to, like a ruby-throated hummingbird who finds sun

and water and life enough from sipps of nectar, cloistered in orange blossoms, of August

Jewelweed. Hovering, a rapid fluttering, juvenile hawk, a distraction of the wind, and it is flown, -

the day. Could I say, slyly, it was simple mismanagement of summer itself that these long days I

dutifully lived in slipped away, like Puck, Nick Bottom, Titania and the others whose dream on

the island created a play.

At work on the geography of warmth, of birdcalls, of leave’s serpentine patterning of rivers

twining, of grassblades creakingly growing - seeking the edge capacities of each. On this

horizon, I now move; movement, motion, without a cause - which those rocky shored Athenians

sought in the ebb and flow of the waves without length, depth, angle or the possibility of such -

causes and consequences, effects....

Speak to me of weather - and its constantly inconstant configurations upon which the track of

time loses its way in intervallic play among katydid’s hum, sun, rain, wind, clouds, vapor, cool,

heat, bugs, bites, paths, streams, swims -

Seeking these songs, odes, hymes, rhymes, prayers and the recantation of such, this imperfect

perfection or should I be saying or at least dreaming, as these moments now arises and

submerge island like, this perfect imperfection called ‘summer day’ -

the theology of summer -

“Love disguises its perfection”