There is a certain beauty to the world that one must be a part of to experience. It must be found while walking, jogging, running or in my case, cycling out in the afternoon. It can not be found from the isolated biome of a car, in a city-state little world with gadgets and conditioned air.
Today, I experienced it:
The sun hangs white in the sky, cloudless and deep blue, going on forever and more.
There is a small pasture just off of the four-lane where no animals have grazed for a while. Wild hedges have grown up all along the barbed-wire fencing, except for a ground-level hole on the western-running side, where a pack of dogs makes shortcut to their homes and haunts.
Off of a brown two-lane, colored by its make-up of pea gravel, lie several small, white houses quaint and homely. To one's side, there stands water from the previous weeks' rains. In the middle of the water stands a young willow, and the sun reflects bright off the water's still surface. Shadows lean from everything, right to left, and a warmth blankets the streets.
In these moments in this little town in the foothills, a song comes to mind:
I met my love by the gas works wall,
dreamed a dream by the old canal,
I kiss my girl by the factory wall;
Dirty old town; dirty old town.
Clouds are drifting across the moon,
cats are prowling on their beats,
spring's a girl in the streets at night,
Dirty old town; dirty old town.
At the city elementary school, a small girl pushes herself around the asphalt lot while her parents look on. Nearby, there is a house that is beautiful and elegant as this day. In the lawn, just away from the street, is stuck a sign, out of place against the home's perfection. It is for sale, and all I can do is dream.
I heard a siren from the docks
saw a train set the night on fire.
I smelled the spring on the smoky wind.
Dirty old town; dirty old town.
