THERE ARE NO SECRETS

198. THERE ARE NO SECRETS:

Don't let anyone tell you there are any secrets - there are none - and the winds blow in public ways wherever they wish to blow and the waters flow in their own way no matter the ways of man and the treetops bend and twist when they must and their branches in turn sway and crack and fall where they may while geese swoon and herons stand and the great floating hawks and vultures of the air make use of the very breeze we miss and the high air vaults the heavens in silence as we down below only surmise that which may be - there are NO secrets there nor in the words of mankind and the deeds of men : just the broken-air gloss of the finish of each act and the endless reprecussions of everything we do - the very warp and weft of people who come and go and are never seen again : citizens of graveyards ghost-stories of old men and their places in the hills - barns and sheds and cabins along the waterways now abandoned - and in every memory of every little boy or girl who ever passed the old ruins by : secret messages these never are and instead they are ever-present and everywhere but undeciphered and left to die.
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And I'm sitting on a train watching the land go by me with every hillock and rivulet passing in the light as the vague sun comes up over the horizon in oranges and yellows and reds and the entire scene is crushed by a certain vulnerability which seems to come from the heart and a sadness too which permeates the light and the awakening fields which seem forsaken and forlorn and ripped and neglected as the old industrial foundations now ruined and abandoned too are overgrown with broken weeds and choppy sumacs and twisty winter vines with wiry shrubs of a wild nature and all this while distant houses - set in a row - in whites and greens and yellows and reds can be seen in lines and formations where once these old woods had extended but now are gone : small waterways and sudden pockets of marsh and water in pools are all that are left and only then because they couldn't be drained so as to be built on and it's a sorry world to see so much gone so much removed and taken away like that but this same world runs by me at speed as the train I sit in whizzes over whatever once may have been and cuts through trees which once were and old paths and lanes too now gone and different overlays enact different scenes to the lands and places we pass : once here an armaments factory for WWI and over there an old automobile plant now long gone while to the right the landscape and garden sheds of some hardware emporium coat the land with limes and nitrogens in bags not yet broken apart as the train whistle howls for something and we approach another stop - where distant people wait and hunch with their bodies tribal and overwhelmed with everything they live - three men in suits and newspapers on their arms a woman carrying a basket and a girl pulling luggage and a bag while the conductor surveys his scene and waves his arms in the quiet morning light only now just awakening into some figment of real life - some imagined leap into an imagined reality we all seem so sure of as we walk and settle upon : this Earth - it is thought - knows us enough forever to continually invite us in and back and we fall for the invitation so willingly each time - to what should we owe the honor ? this rumination this new cycle of thought ?