Weather or Not
I pick up a sense for the impending weather from the folks in my car, “…they say it’s going to be warmer all this week.” “Looks like we’ll finally get some snow tomorrow.” ...listening half heartedly I flick on the windshield wipers when I need them. After all, I work outdoors in a fast moving climate controlled canister, a capsule slowing a bit if the roads get too slick and slippery. I’m rarely more than a half hour from home if my socks get too wet. I may carry a duffle bag one day, a heavy coat, gloves and bigger boots if it ever does begin to pile up. In the meantime, I'll watch out for the weather through my windshield… so totally in awe of it all.
I began to drive at the end of last August's lush summer’s green. Treated to what was quite likely the most glorious fall I’ve yet to see. I watched the old maple at St. George’s corner at Johnson and King turn a certain blood-orange red I’d never expect was even possible. There is a clump of trees along City Park that, as they thinned on rainy days, their black stems seemingly having been drawn quickly, charcoal stick gestures behind yellow, ever brighter, day after day fewer translucent leaves laying against damp darkened limestone grey skies… Kingston is a garden… I’ve rolled down the middle part of Johnson, in the morning as the sun broke open and cast an electric hue over the city, bouncing so brightly off Brock Towers, one couldn’t help singing, something, anything that came to mind while heading further into the older part of town, just passing Barrie. I’ve swung onto Livingston as the sunshine between each leftover leaf. glittering, seemed to match seamlessly with twinkle off each little wavelet out on a light winded lake. I’ve watched this garden blown furiously to the ground, nothing left but old bent spines, almost colorlessly brown and dried out anatomy diagrams, Grey’s nervous and/or cardiovascular systems… barely breathing as we head towards another older man’s winter…
I’m sure a few pals might wonder if this ever gets boring, driving around and around on these same few streets day in day out, hour after hour. Much like any moment I’ve spent over n' over with any really good friend, I’ve never driven down the exact same street twice... I’ve never tired of a moment spent doing the same thing with old friends, who… like the weather, that allows me to decide for myself whether to be bored or not. And like the weather, why sit around and wonder what any of these wondering friends may do next. Oh, certainly it’s good to put on the right boots when off to meet with good friends, but to worry over what might “blow over that day”… I’ve seen glittering smiles, twinkle off the same same cheeks where knotted brows and gloomy thoughts grow then get blown to the ground, swept away by a simple lighter blown breezy n' comfortable conversation… boring? The skies going to do… as my friends might do; it's all much bigger than me and rather than try and get a head start on it all before I head out the door… the weather reports right up in the sky and... oh great, and it’s starting to snow... again.