It’s Thursday. It could be any Thursday in the half-year after bitter colds and before snows. They all start identical. My serene morning with the head bobbing pigeons scouring the ground for human detritus, one man’s garbage another’s treasure, sparrows flitting with the speed of slow lightning strikes alight on my table and stare into my eyes. The homeless with lives stuffed into an overflowing shopping cart, one person’s garbage another’s treasure, are half asleep on another of the six-legged, steel octopi.
Calmness…until serenity is tarnished by the hubbub of the Farmer’s Market. Makeshift canopies hovering like mother birds over flowers and fruits and veggies and soaps and on and on and on… These are the early morning humans setting up their stalls to allure the influx of worker ants on the way to the office for another days wage.
Every Thursday for half the year enduring heat and cold, sun and rain, the freak out of season snowstorm. My question always, how to channel their energy into creativity and words skating across a blank page without losing my sanity in the muted roar?