entrapped: detour in the high desert

Brush-footed Butterfly

by LJ Frank

entrapped under the fog of algae odors rising from a polluted river the pungency permeated my nostrils and filled my lungs, so I coughed knowingly, the air was actually the atmosphere of an unseaworthy plan and weary port of call.

drafting an adaptable strategy to meet a Muse, my brain reasoned the hues of the canvas being painted in my brain beckoned an alternative design, so, the next week I flew across a portion of the country in an aging turboprop, and I snuggled in the tail with cloudy sunshine outside moving toward the horizon, while counseling the “I” to have no expectations.

a nod of thanks to the conscientious flight attendant, a refuge was being sought and my heart was embracing an emotional parachute of thought while sipping cheap red wine, with a glance at a fellow passenger fingering a wood abacus, counting numbers with technology from the past.

an engine sputtering redirected expectation mid-flight as we landed in an unfamiliar airport short of the destination, being somewhat of a situationist I understand there are no illusions outside of circumstance, so ventured a text and an update to my Internet companion and options were suggested with a decision to drive, knowing patience was her pseudonym.

a rented a car and a working radio we met halfway in the high desert at an oasis with a restaurant, where she readily admitted she was not a Muse only a fleeting mariposa with colorful wings, yet wanted to meet as she knew I did in our lengthy communications, so I offered that revelations arrive in many guises but am the owner of spontaneity.

for nearly two hours the conversation was provocative, how could it be anything else, after which we hugged and spoke of ambitions and visions that seemed out of reach, and she observed that she learned to want over the experience of to need and with an appreciation of the nature of brevity’s steep slope of meaning we said our goodbyes and walked to our respective vehicles, promising to stay in touch.

and as I opened my car door I looked back and discovered she and her vehicle had disappeared as if never being there in the first place, and I smiled at a Brush-footed Butterfly dancing in the air above me, and through such experiences I know, shapeshifting is the path only of the Mind’s Eye, with the accumulated knowledge of adaptation to that which is now.