Even when you don't look

everything goes on,

like ant mounds in the forest,

fish in the ocean

and our meager days on the continents

Jon's songs out of Duncanville appear

from forty years of silence;

scarce, scattered, diluted;

their homeopathic pattern hard to discern,

distorting experiential evenness

like rivets of an ocean liner,

the hull anonymously dotted,

throwing theoretical arithmetic of a space-time construct;

the jerky dance of cobalt blue dragonflies

in the shadowy nooks & crannies

of winding Nat River,

opening unto the brutally light expanses

of Lake Båven,

the canoe shooting like an arrow

out of prehistory

- until I stand back

out of immediacy & contemporanea

to sense the whole galaxy of undulating life,

hearing the voices of living & dead,

struck by the sudden Satori insight

that even huge entities can have shapes, like Andromeda,

tilting it's hat like Fred Astaire,

dancing towards you through a million years

I lay back in effortlessness

in a darkness full of stars;

imagining candle-lit hardwood tables

in a spacious restaurant

for the immensely wealthy;

Jon's songs reaching me out of Duncanville

in the image of Bob Dylan

taking on a Frank Sinatra standard

at New York's mellow Breakfast Club