The Philosopher in Florida
Midsummer lies on this town like a plague: locusts now replaced by humidity, the bloodied Nile now an algae-covered rivulet struggling to find its terminus. Our choice is a simple one: to leave or to remain, to render the Spanish moss a memory or to pull it from trees, repeatedly. And this must be what the young philosopher felt, the pull of a dialectic so basic the mind refuses, normally, to take much notice of it. Outside, beyond a palm-tree fence, a flock of ibis mounts the air, our concerns ignored by their quick white wings. Feathered flashes reflected in water, the bending necks of the cattails: the landscape feels nothing— it repeats itself with or without us.
Copyright © 2001 by C. Dale Young. Reprinted by permission of TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.