Autumn Leaves

The arthritic sat calmly, like a statue, on the indigo swivel chair. The doctor felt his wrists, palm and fingers, mumbling what sounded like the names of the bones and joints. “Are you a typist?” he asked, puffing on his cigar. “Nobody types anymore,” said the arthritic. “True enough,” the doctor agreed, swiveling his own indigo chair to face his manual typewriter with its fresh new form. He punched some keys to make notes, and then turned to the arthritic to ask about his profession. It was not one the doctor recognized. He prescribed some ointments and aspirin and sent the man on his way. At the end of the day, as the doctor walked down a broad avenue of chestnuts, he saw the arthritic, standing in the shade to the side, counting on his fingers, pausing, and then counting again. What was he counting? Motorists? Transients? Lost friends? Syllables? Autumn leaves? “Nobody counts anymore!” the doctor exclaimed out loud, and shuffled off to the station.

The Asterism

The asterism mazes across the night sky in cold, bright stars. The shadow, an old man or child, gazing up from a field of tawny grass, does not know the light years of its breadth, the orbit of its galaxy, its right ascension or declination, its quadrant, the parallax, velocity or magnitude of its brightest stars. It does not know the formula for gravity or relativity, nor the atomic weights of hydrogen and helium. It does not know the mysteries of its galaxy that the astronomers do not know. And yet it knows the faithful pattern, the changless appearance and itinerary, and a handful of magical stories. Night after night, the shadow looks upward to the stars that lived long before him and will live long after him, sometimes wishful but always thankful for the endless sign and its brilliant silence shining back down on him.

The Orange Crate

There was no sky. And a light rain fell. In the black woods, the pilgrim walked through impenetrable darkness. The strange sounds of twigs, owls, foxen and just the wind and rain in the leaves surrounded him and made him fearful. The stones and ferns were cold and wet. Suddenly, he stumbled upon something. It was a cache–a lantern and a box of matches. There was one match left. One strike of the match was luckily enough to light the lantern, but the lantern was too dim. Even the little match had been brighter, but its light had only lasted for one flashing moment. Training the lantern on his surroundings, the pilgrim searched for landmarks or signs. He seemed to be in a glen surrounded by the black boles, leaves and needles of dark and formless trees. On the far side was an orange box, perhaps another cache. Close to him, in the opposite direction, was something resembling a path of pebbles and pine needles leading deeper into the mountains. Crossing the clearing, he found that the lantern began to flicker and grow dimmer. He could no longer discern the orange box in the darkness. Perhaps he had imagined it. Recrossing the clearing, he started on the path, and suddenly the lantern light grew brighter with every footstep. Stopping, he turned back toward the clearing. A small amber flicker, like Arcturus in the night sky, glowed in the distance amongst the black trees. It must be the orange crate, he thought. With the stronger lantern, he headed back toward the clearing, but the closer he got, the dimmer the light grew, and it was next to impossible to see. Only a dark glow barely illuminated his hand holding the lantern, some oak leaves and gravel underfoot, and nothing more. Once again he headed back to the path, and continued to walk. The further he walked, the brighter the lantern glowed. It is likely that he had gone further and higher than before. Now, when he stopped and trained the light in the direction begind him, he could read the contours of the path, the textures of the pines, oaks, larch and yew, and he even noted the fact that the orange crate was still there and seemed to be stamped with large text of some sort, but he could not read the letters clearly. A wolf howled nearby. It was absurd. What was even more absurd was the fact that he had traveled safely for hours before finding the lamp and the path, and now he felt only the madness of the whispering forest.