Dread prowls like the raptor's shadow on a mousey meadow. December 30th, here in Portland. Stark sunlight lays bare our sorry condition. Reservoir 1, empty, tawdry and dilapidated --crumbling concrete, moss. Muddy runnels gouge the pathways on Tabor's flanks. Maples stand bare and devastated, their naked arms raised to the empty sky.
It is the closing of another arbitrary chapter in humanity's chronicle, the Year of Our Lord 2012. I would stand at Julija Laenen's park bench and pay homage to the Old Man. (He serves as well as any other manifestation, methinks.)
Portlanders, in their stocking caps and mittens. Portlanders leading their dogs on long leashes. They infest the park. A sunny day, after all. By their bright eyes, by their smiles and laughter, I sense I am alone with my fear.
Cleansing sunlight gives sharp definition to the shadows --shadows of needled evergreen boughs, waving with the breezes, shadows of changeful humans, in their myriad posturings.
At the top, I look upon his glory.
I think of all those things that may come to pass in this next chapter, 2013. That I might offer a prayer, you understand.
I'm afraid of things I can't name. But to ask for anything is hubris.
I try for a while, but can't get beyond a single word. "Father..."