Ravine - Sept 3 2022

 

Ravine

Sept 3 2022

The ravines

run through the city

like lush green veins,

giving life

as they wend their way to the heart.

Carved

over who knows how many years

by the rivers and streams

that have always been here.

Where I walk after dark.

When the only light is stars

and the quiet is unnatural.

When the cool air

seems super-charged

with energizing oxygen.

Each stream

is stubbornly anarchic,

conforming to the land

and taking as long as it takes

on its journey downstream.

Still untamed,

they cut through the grid

of city streets

that planners drew on a map

and the builders bulldozed and paved,

ruler straight

evenly spaced

and made for maximum speed.

Streetlights

all night

blotting out the sky.

A contented creek

burbles to my left.

A bird, disturbed as I pass

flutters in its nest.

Crisp leaves

crunch underfoot,

a fallen branch snaps.

Even the dogs are subdued,

snuffling in the grass

and sniffing avidly

but staying close to me,

only disappearing

a little off in the woods

to relieve themselves.

My unselfconscious dogs,

who aren't normally this demure

going at will.

It's early fall, and there's a chill in the air.

Decadent summer

short as ever

left me wanting more,

its indolent scorchers

and lingering light,

the unstructured time

I'm happy to while away.

But summer has ended

and I'm feeling fully present

on a gorgeous fall day.

So we walk

in this narrow band of greenery

that feels detached from city life;

a simulacrum of wilderness

I can easily imagine is real.

I pull my collar tight.

Slip both hands

into my jacket

burrowing as deep as I can.

Watch my breath turn to mist,

then vanish

in the brisk fall air.

Bask

in uncanny silence,

where my footsteps

are all there is to hear.