The perfect scent of an August morning. The still reservoir, a sheet of glimmering glass.
Think of all the people pursuing their hopes, unrecognized, perhaps unpaid, for their inventions, creations, solutions – or just for surviving.
Sunlight strikes the small branch of a wayside bush, shaft meeting shaft. A flame-reflection bursts from a taxi in the distance, then vanishes.
A scowling artist pushes his easel and paints up a hill, mulling where to pause.
Towhead twins jog with their mother, one leaping to touch the leaves above.
It is not the loose-weave of these forgotten moments that carry us forth – or is it?
– on the anniversary of MLK’s ‘I Have a Dream’ Speech
