The sweet air and stillness lulls this town to sleep
Slow is the motion by which it moves as if it were a garden slug making its way deliberately along the clay bricks that borders the landscaped vegetation of the Garden district.
Until this time it all seems lazy and aloof with little more then a nod and a salutation to progress the day forward.
This place, steeped.
This place, this history.
Dark like the clouds that roll in, making everything conscience of what is to come.
in a flash the wind kicks
And the leaves alert their warning
A drop here and there, then more still
The flow begins to steady with the sound and emotion of applause from the local dive with jamming jazz musicians
Resonating up from my toes into my soul, stopping and spinning endlessly in my overstimulated cerebellum
The thrashing wind, the rain, the thunder, all have become the backdrop of the storming scrutiny that
Allows not a forgotten thought of it’s past
Of the history
Of the blood
Of the sweat
Of the toil
Of the pain
Of the unrest
Of the forgotten themselves
No storm, no thunder, no rain,
Shall ever wash them away.