In An Old School Building

There is time to watch the eagle's talons grasping what it may, the arrows or the wheat creating legend some will fight for, creating heritage they didn't fully understand. I saw the children's feet upon the wooden stairs, concave from all the years of children climbing, rushing down to music only they could hear-- their colors blending in the fabric of an always yesterday, concelebration of the swirl of yet another generation in the dance. They stopped in time, and with their piquant flare of insight that a fleeting pre-pubescence gives, informed me with a glance the moment was their own, and I might frame it only with my memory, its capture that pure vanity that only visionaries ponder. Then why do they not take their voices with them? With what trans-time device do they still rush upon my consciousness, insisting they are better ghosts than those before them on the stair? And then I knew their predecessors too are children, mirroring the lives of everyman who crept, and marched, and flew through centuries of evolutionary rite and held their sage observers in their thrall--or yet as headlong innocents, teaching love to watchers, sprites intoxicated by the dust of chalk and leaving their forgotten kind of laughter in the staircase walls for passersby who listen wih their hearts. ~