Sunday Painting

For 'Scout'  

Contrarily, the wind often turns against    
an initial forecast, in that fiery way    
brilliance gives over (in summertime) to    
   
reticent, diaphanous clouds: when only    
an intense coloration remains the same.    
Already many leaves are turning some    
   
ten thousand palms upward, to signal    
changing atmospheric pressure:    
the wind plays with heat and chimes,    
   
in vast motions of oceanic breeze, but    
the sunsmell continues: even birdsong    
grows more sporadic, now: little other    
   
than occasional squawks, chittering,      
which communicates urgency in hushed    
overtones: and yet, the whole pageant    
   
of this returns me years back: both of us,    
driving along backroads, in autumn    
serenity, long stretches shaded with deep    
   
green arbors: stopping inside dilapidated    
barns to admire such items, as old silverware,    
for sale: whose beauty still emanates    
   
past age and reflective tarnish, echoing    
the rainfall we sought protection from:    
knowing most of all, it wasn't such    
   
artifacts, or rummaging provincial ruins,    
I appreciated, but which I hadn't realised:    
it was this dual-being: sharing glimpses    
   
each would experience, interpret differently:    
offering semblances of a history that    
can, and will, be continuously unearthed.