They drift by, those poised between youth and maturity, handsome, success and assurance on their shoulders like an Academy Award.
They drift by the older dullards briskly stepping to their equals, the undaunted, the confident, the unrepentant successful.
If pride cometh before a fall, they make sure of their ground, their stance secure, their eyes on the brightest lights.
Why walk through shadows?
Why hesitate to taste the wind?
Why stop before an aging woman with no power, no authority, no boast of success, who lacks the basic shibboleth?
So they drift by, like a cold thread of air, brushing her skirt but feeling nothing, hearing nothing of her heart, her worries of her songs.
Pride rides on their sleeves like a reckless stallion.
August 2, 2002