Newborn pups suckling from their mother
who is wary of the stranger stopping to take it all in.
As well she should be for her protection of her young is a wonderful thing to behold.

A lone bloom in a garden full of yet-grown flowers.

A couple on a street corner holding hands and kissing.
Perhaps a little too intimate for public view.
So deliciously meretricious.

A crosswalk box so layered in endless encounters with midnight taggers and their spray paint cans
that it has transcended its civic role and become art.

A fledgling on the pavement before me
whose little life has been lost from falling out of the nest too soon.
The scurrying ants upon it.

The windshield glass in the street shattered into snow and the splats of red upon it.
The ubiquitous yellow tape.
Remnants of a city tragedy that are merely an inevitable part in the tapestry.

A sky that radiates a marbled canvas of unspeakable magnificence.
Or the rolling dark angry eyes of a tempest creeping.

The tiniest thing is mine.

All mine.

To love.

To cherish.

To covet.

To reflect upon.

To mourn.

Perhaps a moment of silence and a bowed head.

Just another day on my morning walk.   A meditation.

Until it is someone else’s turn for a captivating discovery.

And then to be able to let it go.

To appreciate its impermanence.

To move on to the next wonder.

The next brush.

The next audacious interception with life in all of its astonishment.

I once opened a fortune cookie to a fortune that was meant for me:
You discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.

 

I DO discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.

It is my proudest trick.

I also brazenly plagiarize fortune cookies.

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.