The following scenes from yesterday are what I really thought I witnessed, but maybe it was all a dream.
Have you ever considered the colors of your life? Here. Right now. In the countryside. I can not ignore them and the color of my bliss.
Blue clear skies contrast green meadows.
Chestnut coats cause a pause in the seam stitching pasture to sky.
Fine lines separate sun-induced, neon-green field from fence;
Fence from forest-green, tree-laced hill.
A curving line breaks hilltop from a sky-blue expanse.
I am inspired to live brightly today. I adorn myself in a cobalt floral tank, a chartreuse belt, and a vibrant zip-up. It's color, a cross between magenta and orange peel.
Even driving into town the colorful people stand out like peacocks parading through dessert.
I pass a jogger (gender is ambiguous) running across the street at a traffic light, clad in a crimson hat, sunglasses, and navy, short shorts. This person appears to be only a long and overly-thin runner. He/She stops on the street corner (no lie!) breaks into a moon walk, quickly turns on his/her heel and breaks into a far-from-fluid dance like "the robot." A half-an-hour later my car traces her steps. Returning the way we came, I again, bare witness to this comical "runner" dancing on the road's side, as if no one is watching. I can only hope amazingly funky tunes are playing on this person's IPod.
My sight manages to, then, trip and fall over a Mexican man. He lives out loud in a large white cowboy hat, a red blazer, and cowboy boots. His eyes are set forward, and his hands dutifully hold a wheelbarrow which he pushes onward in a determined daze. Where is he going with a wheelbarrow, dressed in formal western attire, on this busy road?
Then my peepers spy a woman loitering at the intersection, her bright colored attire draws my attention. There she just stands, her eyes grazing the cars and streets, with a mischievous grin on her face. Her long hair falls from under a bandanna, a collage of colors. Her skirt is bright purple, and her top half is an eye-piercing yellow. In her hand she holds a red and white "stop" flag with no purpose. It just flaps, lazily, at her side. On my destination's return, she still stands, but on a different corner. Flag in hand, she is smiling. This time I can peer at her , and her "Indian" red, wrinkled, sun-worn skin more closely. Her face looks like it has weathered all the dry summer heat the Sonoma Valley has ever known.
Don't ask. It all remains my mind's mystery too. I wonder if this is all some kind of strange, social experiment intended to see if drivers notice the people around them. I can only wish I had a car companion to look over at, and see the disbelief written across their face too.
I then am homeward bound, looking happily toward the shades of the evening. With my mind's ravenous eye, I touch on future glimpses of his grey-dappled, white coat fitted tightly across the contours of his muscular equine frame.
After the day's colors fade out with the long shadows and golden glow of sunset, my hope is for crystal moon-tinged darkness, shades away from being black.
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