Monday, August 11, 2008
you can't make out the edges of the park. there is a mime. he too is in shadow. a man in a white suit rides a unicycle. half a dozen young men in baggy pants joust under a maple with light wooden swords they have made and decorated themselves. they topple over each other landing on the pungent earth. it isn't soft. and like the underweave of a ancient carpet the grasses no long touch each other. in the gaps earth worms ripple and dive. small stones are unearthed. a wine cork, several cigarette butts, several languages, many crickets, the whir of cylcists, the endless versions of bob marley, and this night the Symphony playing Beethoven in Théâtre de Verdure.
at 2:31 PM