Enlightened by Light
of steel on stone
A trickle of water darkens the whetstone. Outside the workshop, birds are perching, burdening the trees. Calling goodbye to the sharpener of blades, I pass underneath the laden boughs. A few hesitant chirps and twitters sound overhead. Hedgerows hump the sides of the path and here, too, sparrows are sheltered. Faint rustlings can be heard as I pass. Now, as dusk deepens, a few fireflies begin their evening communications.
On the avenue ahead, streetlights attract moths, which cast eerie shadows as they flutter about. One large specimen clings to a telephone pole, flat out as if sleeping.
Close to home, I finger the pair of scissors in my pocket, their blades now newly sharpened from the whetstone. In my musings, sparks from the whetstone and flashes from the fireflies seem to convey a sameness of mood and magic, both sharpening my awareness.
as I reach my door,
a light blinks on.