Evening Senses

The evening is sueded: dusky pink clouds: mountainous vessels slowly sailing behind gilded topped maples and sycamores. A rib cage hollow percussion from the lanterns in sway, bending the prisms hanging crystals throw. A father minstrel with ukulele in hand, strums through the alleys: a melodious stream of breezes and corvid laughter. A cardinal flies overhead, its belly never as red as when the sun sets upon it: I brush the hair from my eye with the back of my hand: ripe with the scent of afternoon rain on tomato vines…twine…sun bleached bamboo. It’s the very same feeling that comes over me: the peace of standing on the balcony looking out on Point Lobos: waves and silhouettes and a fire crackling in the living room: He standing behind me, watching me breathe. East or West: my soul knows beauty: be it grand, be it simple: I’m aware of how alive my senses are: tangled as they be: and that in itself: beauty

E.A. O'Connell