I rode alone on an arc of darkness until a rainbow impaled me. The sun swallowed me up, spitting me out again as a butterfly onto the shoulder of Old Joseph, who spoke awhile. From there I fluttered south to Capistrano, to see the swallows. I made my way to the jungles of Indonesia that day. By nightfall I had returned to America, east of the Rockies, just in time to join a twilight meadow full of fireflies dancing electric. I bent to touch the grass – sweet defiant New England grass – and morphed into my same old recycled miraculous human self again. Untidy hair, worn-out comfortable patchwork clothes of many colors, hobo bag slung across my back.
From that day on I took to sleeping in trees, stealing food and making love on rooftops. A girl painted my sandals and my face with the glitter of sun, moon and stars. She blew dust into the deep places of my eyes, and we made our way along the seacoast, phantom ships on the horizon. Elder faces appeared in the eroding stone of looming cliffs, waves knocking at their feet. They were silent, but I learned much from paying attention. Mist gathered, nudging me closer to the fire. Sam Cooke’s exquisite voice echoed in my mind, as if from the opposite end of a long musical funnel bridging decades. “…it’s been a long, long time comin’, but I know, yes I know…a change gonna come…”