Even when you don't look
everything goes on,
like ant mounds in the forest,
fish in the ocean
and our meager days on the continents

Jon's songs out of Duncanville appear
from forty years of silence;
scarce, scattered, diluted;
their homeopathic pattern hard to discern,
distorting experiential evenness
like rivets of an ocean liner,
the hull anonymously dotted,
throwing theoretical arithmetic of a space-time construct;
the jerky dance of cobalt blue dragonflies
in the shadowy nooks & crannies
of winding Nat River,
opening unto the brutally light expanses
of Lake Båven,
the canoe shooting like an arrow
out of prehistory

- until I stand back
out of immediacy & contemporanea
to sense the whole galaxy of undulating life,
hearing the voices of living & dead,
struck by the sudden Satori insight
that even huge entities can have shapes, like Andromeda,
tilting it's hat like Fred Astaire,
dancing towards you through a million years

I lay back in effortlessness
in a darkness full of stars;
imagining candle-lit hardwood tables
in a spacious restaurant
for the immensely wealthy;
Jon's songs reaching me out of Duncanville
in the image of Bob Dylan
taking on a Frank Sinatra standard
at New York's mellow Breakfast Club