Early fall's rented orange has begun its move to brown. Brown holds the hue, but can't keep the space, lets go and, relieved of the weight, branches shake in the wind.
"I'm shaking it, boss!"
We track the leaves, our arcs are the same, dropping to the grass, leaves, bushes. It's not the real estate we picked out, but here we are. Now what?
"I'm shaking it, boss!"
Keep shaking. Don't know what else to do. We're not ready, don't want the barrel delivery at the end, that comes when we go still.
No, not still--we're shaking it, boss. Every day, when still prevails, we shake the bush, we show we're here, accounted for. We're here, boss...
all of a piece, alone
in a wind that does not move the others--
in that way: a way to spend
a Sunday afternoon while the green bush shakes.
* italics from "Cool Hand Luke" and William Carlos Williams's "Paterson"
