Between Dirt And Dust
The clouds were glowing. Huge and alive. High up in the atmosphere the white clouds rose. The dark ones were only on the edges, the sun reflecting wildly. Floating on my back I could see the whole sky. Shades allowed my eyes to probe. A twisted skeleton, like Richard III. A massive poodle. Then a jet streaked through the blue sky and disappeared into a wall of white. Faces were everywhere, like angels looking down. Rain is always a threat in Texas when summer wants to heat up and the spring is still dense. The Gulf of Mexico storms usually exhaust themselves on the other side of Ft. Worth. The Brazos River provides a natural dividing line between northeast and southwest. Between fast and slow. Between dirt and dust. The whole scene played out in the layered sky. The cool water was clean. The shrimp and grits were savory again last night. This morning, that has all changed. The clouds are low and thin, the sun will burn them off by noon. Could watch the red clay all day long. Old players still have a chance. Slow this thing down. It was right to save the French. Our complicated brothers and sisters. They know revolution and evolution. They understand resistance. They know the underground. They will never give up their language. It is too beautiful. All the flags fly proudly. Broken windows all around.