yellowbird.
two months have nearly passed since our* stay at this small wonder. it still feels close, like a sweet-nothings kind of whisper that hums in your ear even after your lover has left the room.
after staying with david and finishing [yay! applause!] the sauna floor, the orchard, after befriending the wild goats- i (cris) went back to miami. i returned to my motherland.
miami, unlike middle tennessee, is flat. it’s hot alllllll the time. it’s bursting with [unnatural] sound. it’s suburban. there is a disheartening amount of traffic and nature is a word gringos use.
it was when i was stuck in this said traffic that i’ve thought of yellow bird the most.
one morning, before the sun came out from under its covers, i rode behind the endless line of worker ants and felt nothing. i just sat behind the wheel and pushed :accelerator: :::brake::: ::change lane:: :::brake::: and so on.
without realizing, my subconscious seemed to take over. soon i was listening to bob dylan’s version of “mr. tambourine man”** and i was there.
i saw the lake glimmering in the golden light of dusk. the cats meowing and crawling in and out of the barn. i felt the rain hit my face as i rode the 4x4 up a hill. red leaves falling. smelled the bread baking. tasted the fresh spring water.
what beauty. what a gift.
footnotes:
*tim ballard and cris boronat
**i still don't know why ol bobby brought me to that place. maybe because his voice feels like home to me, like yellowbird.
