Babel

At the edge of Fallbrook Forest so distant from the city, inhabited by Haves and Have-Nots, I dwell, a cabin without shutters and moods created by surprise and mystery, in rags and free. Abandoned on an island of tranquility, envy of those who must exist, in crowds alone, amidst the terror of a frothy sea of deadly poison. Metropolis of gloom and doom. Smoke billows from the purple and age-stained rooftiles, beneath which sigh the sounds and stenches of a tea party of Mad Hatters. Between us lives a placid lake with wondrous secrets, and happy pebbles quick swarms of fish in blues and yellows loud orange rainbow brightness, fine tuned, nuances like a clustered psychodelia. Reflecting its own soul within my eyes, caressing spectacles within a world of soothing beauty a gift of Nature for those of vision. There are no fish of pleasant colour in murky waters, though made by swirls a whimsy of bold evolution with unexpected yet innate wonder of loving humour, once selected and then bestowed on those who hear the whispers of humanity. The tranquil waters of our lake now stir in balmy morning breeze, and, from the bottom of the sea appears a humpback, giant whale adorned with countless barnacles. His vocal blows are heard in town, a sign of freedom forever distant, a sound that travels through all valleys and mountaintops. Across calm waters carries proudly its wings of hope and black despair. Yet not one ear will on this day receive. A deafness has surrounded all living beings within walls of stone and mortar, topped by weeds that rise from crevices to heaven. All time has landed at the Portal, to meet the piper and to pay. As clouds drift closer darkness beckons, from snow-capped peaks an arctic presence invades the city, brings damnation. And lightning strikes for one last time. Yet we are safe beneath the acorns, if frightened by the orange glow of fires sent to cleanse the land. And as we sit to say our prayers it starts to snow from feisty, fluffy clouds onto the trees where an Alaska Pine is home this year to a Columbia Owl now perched and motionless observes a frightened chipmunk on the ground below. Appearing frozen, like death itself it plunges silently with sudden speed, sharp talons leading to start the cycle all anew. The morning wakes God's little kingdom our lake a sea of ice and snow, a blinding glare, a million crystals, the city gone and all its people. 'New Order', now it dawns reluctantly, for us it is the life just as before.