Fly in spring. Late spring. Fly over new planted prairie grain fields and you’ll spot your tartan crest. Fly over mountains and you’ll spy hidden lakes–like jade-ice gems set in stone broaches.
So many mysteries still reside at this height and in this air. Like the high dark line that runs straighter than the horizon separating nothing in particular except perhaps colliding atmospheres.
And land in spring. Late spring. Land under an elm tree.
There are secrets in the Wych elm that lives here, outside the Mocha Café. The tree appears as though it was here before the city was planted. Erosion from thousands of Victorian feet has exposed its thick veiny root system. From its hard rippled base, a trunk the size of a garden shed rises and separates itself for the sky. Verdant, it rides the seasons.
A few blocks south are the saltwater waves. They batter and break over rocks and gather themselves to batter again. The sea answers to no season. Yet it gives seasons their being. That the sea harbours a core mystery, is no mystery. The sea abides. We change–and fly away.
