Copyright 2010 Roberta Osborn. All rights reserved.

Dreams of the Borderland

Unintended Consequences

Coming home at twilight I take an exit just as a flock of birds is banking to land on the storm water

pond encircled by the ramp. I am almost in their midst and I am in motion, too, and it feels for a

sublime moment as if I am suspended in time and space, moving at the same effortless speed in

the same direction with them, one of them. They glide in silently and alight on the water with their

wings outstretched, just as dusk falls. They tuck in their wings and gather and tuck the little waves

they have created like blankets. "Good night" I think to them silently, "sleep tight." I am amused

that the managers of storm water probably did not intend to create the Motel 6 chain for ducks

when they built

the Interstate. I

realize that I too

have created a

chain of

unintended

consequences

possibly more

positive than I

will ever know.

Night pours

past my

concerns of the

day on a gentle

but persistent

breeze. The

torrential rain of

afternoon has

been spent now

and rests in the deep mulch of the path at my feet. The moon presides in a clear sky. I have an

immense heap of papers to deliver, all tightly rolled because I will throw the news of the day on

damp lawns and jam it into boxes without the slightest care. The smell of honeysuckle drenches

the narrow wooded lanes where I walk. Each inspiration of the fragrance is luxurious beyond

measure and I breathe deeper and deeper, slower and slower, to savor the sweetness, to breathe

it into my bones. The frogs in the creek on the side of the road are singing to prospective mates,

and fireflies keep similar time in the dark. I chuckle to think that they too, don't imagine that they

feed the very soul of a silly newspaper-throwing non-frog-non-fly with a tune and light show as

simple and urgent as "Here I am! I am all yours!" But there are few sounds as beautiful to me as

peeps and croaks, or sights as enchanting as firefly light, even if they aren't directed to me. The

frogs leap away as I pass as if at the very idea. I hear their splash, splash, see the blink, blink,

and smile.

I am accompanied by myself, but this twin of me does not sense my presence or my direction and

she is wearing a big white cowboy hat with a star as large as Texas embroidered on it in three

colors, sitting so far down over her eyes she can't see. She strides, oh how she strides, in boots

inscribed with fancy wings, but how does she know where she is going? I run around her to left

and right, trying to get her attention, but she strides on. She never trips or stumbles. I struggle

vainly to keep up, trying to run, peeling out on out bikes, and motorcycles, and cars, but I cannot

match her unerring economy of motion. She gets to my destination before I do, before I know

where I am going. "Hey, how'd you do that?" I ask. She says nothing, but she turns to me, knocks

her hat up from her face, and flashes me a brilliant, affectionate smile.

We have left our shoes outside on the porch. We are stuffed after Thanksgiving dinner, sitting

around in our stocking feet talking, letting the dishes sit. The inside front door is open to let the

heat from cooking escape and the sky outside is clear blue. The trees are bare, and the grass

has dried to a fair golden brown everywhere. There is some fog on the storm door because it is

brisk outside. I am in the kitchen eyeing the pie and I hear a yell, "Hey!" I dash to the living room.

A funny little brown dog with a barrel chest and stubby little legs is gamely making off down the

side walk with an old leather shoe from the porch.  The shoe is bigger than she is and we can't

even chase her, we are laughing so hard.

I am in a room full of clotheslines. I am supposed to go to the clothesline, take a picture out of an

envelope, and on a separate sheet of paper, represent the contents of the picture as either

another envelope or an area of color. I realize that certain threads of my life are consistent

enough to generate a whole cloth while other threads are tangled and complicated, knots to set

aside and work on later.