Dance of Belonging

I stopped to notice small mushrooms popping out of weeds and grass.

They whispered to me, "It's our time, our place."

The clouds wiggled their dance with the sun.

Shadows performed their games on the concrete.

Happily they acknowledged the fungi. 

"It is your moment, your space, tra-la-la", 

I walked in rhythm to Schubert in my head.

Listening to the banter of shadows and mushrooms.

Smiling at a realization of my alliance
with the living.
This moment I am.

"It is my time, my place."

Sun, sky, soil, fungus, plants, rocks, bones.

I shuffled through the shadows, dancing my belonging.

Wishing the feeling to go on and on.

I turned the corner and crossed,

as the light beamed, "WALK", 

I checked for texting-maniacs who may not see me,
and headed across the street.

I heard a loud, offensive buzz I hadn't noticed before.

It was a mower, violating the sound waves,

it's long arm jutting, cutting.

Finely chopping the life surfaces flat.

No salutation. No happy song. No apology.

The machine's thick shadow
smothered the place of play.

The cream-speckled mushrooms no longer proclaimed
they belonged in this world.

The clouds quickly stopped their dance
and shielded the sun.

Distracting her from the destruction.

The mower moved on.

I made a mental note to take another route home.

I wish I could have stepped behind the cloud, along with the sun.

I would have liked to miss the before and after.

I stepped into Mighty Good Coffee, on Main Street,

Ordered a hot Guatamalan coffee,
Opened my laptop and started to write.....

"Small mushrooms popping out of weeds and grass."

Heidi at Mighty Good