Between the Waters

Mourning Music

By: EarlB, 10:57 AM GMT on April 27, 2008

Early in the morning it's not uncommon to be a part of,
along with the rising of the sun, the rising of the racket
of birds, from the operatic chortle of courting turkeys,
to the one-note eruption of blue herons as they shake the
chill of morning from their wings.

The chatter grows, infectiously spreading to birds closer by,
smaller, more plentiful birds, their noise is so total that it
seems to come from within me. It's THAT difficult to pinpoint
from where and from whom the sounds come. Almost music, it is
a delight to be a part of it all.

Counter to the delight, the staccato syncopation of the
morning fugue of a diesel engine reaches me. It too is more
common, recently. Not under the control of springtime or
the rising of the sun, It is the sound of human endeavor, the
sound of a new day, a day punctuated, underlined and
capitalized by change. The rising sun didn't clear the trees,
shave the topsoil and pave the right-of-way. These changes
won't fade as the seasons change. Contrary to the definition
of change, these changes are here to stay. These are the changes
of asphalt for earth, of shingles for blue sky, of a radio heard
thru too-thin walls for the morning music.

Change is a-coming,
And it's a-stayin'.
Change is a-coming,
It's time to say goodbye.

Updated: 11:05 AM GMT on April 28, 2008

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Sense, Sensibility

By: EarlB, 1:43 AM GMT on April 12, 2008

Dearest Elinor,

I was most pleased to hear of your news - you have had to
wait too long, had to survive hope dashed too many times.
My happiest thoughts go out to you, for I saw the sadness in
your eyes, I sensed the sadness in your heart, but never saw
tears in your eyes, That was sadder still.

You hid your feelings when those of your sister (because
they were more loudly expressed) were taken to be more
immediate and important. Then, those deferred feelings
became the expected, the norm, and your dreams were
set aside.

But now, all your dreams are met - only the most pleasant
times are to be yours. I hope you know that it is rare to
capture a dream. Those of us who write know only too well that
dreams are more easily imagined than realized. Writers write,
disregarding this truth, however. Writers and lovers are of
the same bolt, and sensibility does not rule imagination.

I beg of you to remember our sweet Jane, for her dreams will
end up only as dreams - her love's answer will remain only
imagined.

Your's, in the dream,

E.

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