The wisdom of unintended consequences.
The old man among the nine pines, listening to the wind.
Down in the valley,
valley so low,
hang your head over,
hear the wind blow.
The wind in the pines
comforts him in this empty time.
It brings back the breezes that blew
in the pines of Tuolumne Meadows,
the young foreign student,
waiting for a door to open.
The stream cascaded down
between the moon and the mountains,
dragonflies flew around the rocks.
On the ridge above space and time, on
the soft slope of pines and pine needles,
in the incense of pine,
he would meet her
and kiss and caress her.
The nine pines man misses Angel City.
If it wasn’t for the quarantine
he would be at the Noir
on Sunset Boulevard
listening to blue jazz.
Amid the clinking of glasses
the wail of the saxophone,
the cry of the loneliness of the human soul,
the music of the revenge of strangers in the night.
If not for the shutdown
he would be dancing at Lady Luck,
if the right woman co…