The coin’s glint in her eyes, weathered, shiny, under the Boulder bright December sky. “You sing well”, I say not able to stay in tune and follow her gray eyes. “My names Shannon Morgana le Fay”, she says. “Yeah, like the sorceress”, I grin out. “Yeah just like the sorceress” she says. Suddenly, Pearl Street seems small to me, the whole world before me is unimportant. It could be her song, that she sang, it could be what she later claimed was beneath the sorceress.
It’s half past noon on Pearl Street, the sun goes down at five. The gypsy with the gray hair sings Shannon, it brings a single tear to my eye. It’s so cold in December, but it’s worth listening to a sorceress bind my mind.
Henry Gross, she says was at Woodstock, Sha Na Na, an apple to my young eye. And my gray hair was blonde then, I saw it reflected in Henry’s eyes. There’s stories about groupies, there’s girls baring their tits, she says with a sigh. But oh, when I saw my reflection in his eyes, spirits happened, Shannon’s not a canine, well maybe in possession, she winks, oh my my.
I look at where she’s looking, to the Southwest, 80 degrees up a rocky slide, The Flatirons are still standing casting cold shadows underneath a cobalt sunny sky. “Beneath me is a secret”, Shannon looks crafty, well may be almost wild. “Does it have to do with Henry”, I ask thinking this story is worthwhile. “Not really”, she’s getting up to leave, the dollar bills in her lap she’s gathering, an offering like her song’s reprieve. “Wait a minute, please”, I’m begging almost flirting, Shannon like a lover, staring back at me. “Henry, wrote Shannon in 1976, Woodstock was in 1969, what does this have to do with…”! I look down, the crumpled piece of paper is laying still in the Pearl Street grime. Lying ever ready, for someone named me to find. I reach for it, and then look up, seeing the ragged back of Shannon Morgana le Fay turning the corner on Broadway.
I waited till now to read the paper, the fine lines flowing in lyrical curves, tails of dragons making love in the underworld beyond finite time. The wrinkled parchment coming from a “Meads” spiral notebook from the local Target. The words swim, congealing, dissipating and then forming, syllables together, congruent from beneath the sorceress, whom I will never see again.
“In an ancient tongue, we are you, and you are we, what’s sewn enough, can’t get free, don’t run away, ask and see, ask again, this time believe, for we are you, and you are we. Blessed Be, Blessed Be. With kindest Love, Shannon Morgana le Fay”
12.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל