An Hour at Mast Park
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There floats in the air of mast park certain whispy pieces of some dead flower or another. They glide aloft just beyond the concrete line that separates the manicured lawn from the uncontained variety. If you sit next to the bridge that stretches over the same untamed, wildly green grass, you can watch them. They are quite secret. They swing fluidly over the broken branches and the muddy puddles that are almost filled with the corpses of leaves when the wind is calm. They tango and two step around the trunks of trees as the current quickens, always seeming to land out of sight. The infitisimal angels are always here, a secret because one cannot photgraph them, cannot caputre in words or images the way they carry the sunlight on their wings and bear it to distant places. You can only sit and watch them in the breeze and treasure them in your own memory-- as secret you share with these whispers of heaven as they take their unpredictable path through the southern air.
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