Bright Sunlight Autumn

Cover image © Brian Michael Barbeito

Reeds, hawks and a vanishing praying mantis in late-season light — a wander through fields and memory, and the small zen moments that urban sprawl crowds out.

Prose and photographs by Brian Michael Barbeito

Reeds. Hill. Summit. Verdancy. What’s that sound in the distance? A rabbit? A squirrel? More wind? Something else? Jet stream in the blue sky. Straight and right, clean white then puffy and more dispersed. More reeds. Some flaxen. The wild and strong sun, full of prowess. A praying mantis flies like an angel or fairy across the way and lands. I got to where it is to photograph it but can’t find it. This happens twice. It’s not meant to be then. Let it go. Walk around. Dirt path. Black Eyed Susans flowers. Did someone plant them or the seeds somehow just got carried in the wind somewhere sometime? Something else?

Breathe. Denim. Nylon vest. But the zipper broke. I remember a documentary then about Stanley Kubrick and he sent his friend to get his own jacket repaired, a jacket that had a broken zipper or button. Why? Because there was otherwise nothing wrong with it. Sometimes a ring blue, a gift from Dubai or silver spinning ring with saints and Jesus and Mary, Padre Pio the stigmatist. Evergreens. The sound of some birds. A stone. Round. Large. Stand on it. A wooden square of plywood on the ground. I wonder if there is a snake under it. Bees and hornets. Blue butterflies but same thing as Mantis,- just can’t be reached and photographed that time. Stick with the flowers,- especially the purple ones. A horn sounds. Truck air brakes also. Way up there by the more industrial zone. That’s okay. Let the world have the world. Here there are the zen moments. It’s all a zen moment. The shade arrives for a cloud has covered the sun. Where do the insects and animals hide? They must be cold in the nocturnal hours now, even worried perhaps.

The towns have put out pumpkins. White yellow orange. Some big some small some medium. There is too much traffic. The urban sprawl has added several cars per household. Maybe in time I’ll have to migrate northbound. But between the population and noise, if you keep looking, are some gems,- maybe concentrate on those. Wildflowers. Dusk skies with strands of colour. The old evergreens. A coyote walking past in the dark under streetlights. The European Blue Butterfly. The odd Monarch or yellow one. Journals. Books. Words. Dreams. Visions and spirit messages.

Memories. Once we went to a faraway grounds, I think it was where nuns lived and that it was also autumn, like now. The hills were tall and you parked and walked over them to the structures. A stone cathedral. The old nun greeted us outside for a visit. I think she was a friend of my grandmother. I was always quiet, watching the world from the backseat. The landscapes. Canada and America. I95. I75. The Carolinas. Florida. The music on the radio. My knapsack and notebook and books. Adventure stories. Buicks. It was usually a Buick. I also once, later, read The Outsiders. I really liked that book. I think it was one of the first ones I read. I liked the religious aura of all the grandparents. I was never a big fan of boomers, who got too materialistic too quickly. No, their parents were in several ways better made. Their values were more grounded, and I often could see them saying the rosary, or reading about the lives of the saints, or The Bible itself.

A sweater should have a frayed part for soul and wear. A ring should be old and worn, somewhat faded. A book could have a paper inside for making a note or keeping place. Religious icons. Buddha. Jesus. The point is moreso the intention. Porch. Maybe that one old man wore an old style hat, and I sometimes wore this hat also. Those elders. Just people. Good people. Long gone, Jeeze. Life goes on. I don’t think folks remember the departed too much. The world is too fast and they are too engulfed in it. And a poet or mystic is not for them, a representative of nature and old souls, of the mindset of the heart and lauding the flora and fauna, celebrating the seasons,- lakes tides trees flowers. But they aren’t that interested.

The diviners. The cross upon the Chappel. The outdoor world. The public gardens. Haven’t gone there in ages and ages,- when a solitary hawk watched from a fence. I noticed the impossibly joyous and quietly proud sunflowers from the road, so tall and waiting against the blue skies. They would be nice to photograph and write about. One day, the far off salted sea, promenades and parapets, pastel firmament and maybe the day moon. Green palm fronds in warm wind. Crystal sands, grains infinite. Turquoise water. A pier leading out there, over there. A dream alive.

A whole world to see.