Rural Allure
I’m pulled toward a place where the stars shine more brightly and the river bends this way then that. I’m pulled toward the bright bakery where a group of sixty- and seventy-somethings meets for coffee while next door the plant-filled restaurant waits to open its doors for the lunch crowd craving all-day-breakfast and fresh-ground coffee from a local roaster. I’m gravitating toward a place of no traffic lights and midnight trains that rumble in echoes coming and going, their howls warming the canyon with minor keys as ghosts rise in the blue mist of night where the dreams of neighbors sync in playful improvisation propelled by intuitions and insights that hover between perfect sense and oblivion. Where the photographer frames the cosmos and the storyteller laughs at beginnings and ends, where the farmer grows raspberries and the metal worker fashions signs and the village entire is weaving a notion that one size can fit all when everyone agrees that the most important things are love and art and walking home on a street lit only by eyes that have adjusted to the dark and by feet that find their way up the hill without falling.
