The morning sky was framed with clouds, the morning ground was wet from rain, and the morning paper was full of ads and sadness. I could save 10% off new releases or I could look an inch to the left and read about a 2-year-old child beaten to death by his father. The man wore his gloves laced tight and placed punch after punch to the head of his son. He claimed he was trying to teach the boy the art of the sweet science. It landed like a sour ton of bricks, a haymaker from hell.
The news is page after page of death after death and a baseball team that is gasping for breath. Also, it’s time for back to school savings.
We are all heroes and victims and fodder for the pressing. We are all clowns. We are all crying on the inside. We are all interested in wines on sale.
My Sunday morning head is full of a Saturday night bottle. My coffee cup seats two comfortably. There is a bird at the window and he tilts his gaze, knowingly. Quoth Wonka: We are the music-makers and the dreamers of the dream . . . we show no signs of slowing.
There was a small article about Jack Haley, the actor who portrayed the Tin Man so many years ago. He is long since gone. As I read the piece I felt something stir and a need to stop and listen. Somewhere Over the Rainbow was playing and the timing was both odd and perfect. I sat there with the paper in my lap, memories of coffee heavy on my breath and a view that included hills and mountains and a bird in the window.
The morning sky was full of countless drops of sunshine falling lazily across stretching fields and flowers slowly waking.
The morning sky was full of Blue Angels, rainbows, and the birds to fly over them.
I stood there and watched it for as long as I could.