Saturday

The Day



How does the geography of a day shift from one point of view, from one sensibility, to another?  This day, smack in the middle of past days and future days, leading now only to fall behind tomorrow.  This day, once tomorrow, will become yesterday but never again be today.

Maybe the fox shows up, maybe not.  This day, filling with its own self,  doesn't need the fox to be singular.   The fox sweetens the day.  Like weather, like rain.  But the day remains, indifferent to fox or rain. Or me.

This one.  It cannot be reduced.  It cannot be expanded.   I've heard they are numbered, the days, yours and mine, but I don't really believe it.  Would mine be numbered in foxes?  Or full moons?

Maybe that's why I've never liked calendars.  Or clocks.  There is an abstraction in them that imposes on the beauty and power of the singularity of a day.  Whatever may come into this day, whatever may mark it, if mark must be made, let it be mine.  Let it be owned by me and me be owned by it.  Not the calendar, not the clock.

Instead let my day, this one, be described by fox, rain or a child running. An enormous flock of shiny black grackles, making the strange sound of an long-rusted gate opening:  let them mark this day.  Let my many loves mark the day.  My failures. Or the keys that were found.  The dog that came home. The cake that was baked. And eaten.

Let the red turning sheaves of maple's leaf mark the day. The only number this day may need is the one spelling my name.  Or your's.