Sidewalk Preacher

Patterson, NY Watchtower Farm
All around the small pond there are keep out signs. My bottles are empty, so I'm forced to a door. A middle aged black man comes to the window. He doesn't want to smile , but he does. My hair is turning white too I think, but he does not appear to relate to me. I tell him about my breakfast need, and ask about filtering water from the pond for my coffee. With alot of words he tells me no. I am dumb. No water. I refraise my question to include the use of water from his sink. He takes my bottle, and he is gone. In a minute he is back with a cereal bar and a full bottle. "Thank you," I smile
Across the street from the pale house, water comes down from the hills with wonderful spirit. It is a loud conversation I can listen to all day and not tire. This is the perfect place to cook oats, coffee, and think about my Creator. It is Sunday morning I think. The sky is a crisp blue.
Jacob Blan pulls up to the cattlegate I am leaning my back against. His truck is a plain bone white. Still, I am always afraid of a boot. I begin gathering my goods togeather before he opens his mouth, or the truck door. Jacob has been here at Paterson for twenty one years. He is the caretaker. Jacob gave his life to Jehovah over thirty years ago, and he still talks like a newly-wed when he refers to the Creator.
Without much of a delay, Jacob knows my story in a thin sketch, and that I am more than a little familiar with the teachings of Jehovah's Witnesses. Still, for the next hour I am carried from creation throught to the final days of this system. I try to ask questions, about things that I don't understand. My teacher is kind. He ties up his answers in a few words, and we are back on the Biblical tour. I jet my eyes from Jacob to my pack over and over, after I figure out that q. and a. really isn't part of the tour. My unauthorized long hair has been noted. The ivory in my ear has caught the sun. Ink can be seen around my native wrists. I am sure that I scream, "help me," from head to foot, and Jacob wants to help.
I am thankful, but I am full. I am not so stupid as to think that I can walk this walk alone though. As soon as my feet slip, or I feel the cut of a sharp edge it is to prayer that I internally run. As Jacob assends to feed the cows I sling my pack, and find the roadside. My mouth is smiling as I thinks about the God that cares so much about me, that he sends a minister to my feet as I swollow the last of my breakfast. "Thank You."

I see new water. Over the guardrails I climb. My shoes and socks are off. A thousand ravens and crows are in the trees directly above me. They are so happy, and loud, that I can't think. I have to talk loudly just to enter their conversation. I step through posion ivy. Most of the leaves are gone so I figure that it doesn't matter. I find out later that I am wrong, but it is a mild annoyance. The river feel like ice. I make my feet swollow and step in. They are children fighting over bath night. I almost fall. I am a black crow with mud everywhere. From above me I hear laughter.

Still barefoot, I make coffee. As the water boils I spot a huge crayfish in the river three feet deep beneath the surface. My stomach barks out way too many orders to my hands, and my mind can't think. By the time I come up with a plan the crayfish finds a shadow I can't see through, and I pout back to my coffee. I sip, then smile with my whole face.

The crows land with their square tails to understand. The ravens swoop with their large wings and arrowhead tails to play, and check for food. I watch all the purpose of their wings. So much is done just to be in the air, to fold and unfold fingers of black against sky, and then fall rolling between limbs memorized, only to pull out at the last moment to begin again. They are in no hurry to act old just because the soft blue has left their eyes. Until they die they are youth and elder one.

As I return to walking, I open with every song I can think of that mentions the joy of the open road or traveling. My mouth is not modest. In a voice that cripples the roar of passing cars I fill the air around me. 'Old black water keep on rolling, Mississippi moon won't you keep on shining on me,' becomes Desperato. The Eagles progress into Jackson Browne's best seller Running On Empty, and the miles peel off with layers that have grown too warm in the sun.