In The Park

Even the pigeons come to occupy… Here is an elderly gentleman, with a cane and  a green wool jacket. He is strolling slowly, nodding to those who meet his eye, taking in the scenery with a quiet appreciation. A pigeon flies down from a telephone wire to land at his feet. He looks up at the man and cocks his head, giving the gentleman his own quick nod, as if in approval. He then starts walking beside him, waddling along as pigeons do, keeping pace with the brown loafers and eyeing the passersby. It looks as if they are two old buddies, out for a stroll in Westlake park.

There is a movement happening here. The movement of music and dancing, singing and chanting, merging with the sounds of traffic, spiraling into the heavens and bouncing from the hard faces of high-rise buildings. Cresting like the first wave of an incoming tide, with a whoosh of noise that is the collective sigh of several hundred people breathing in unison.

The drums were once a call to war, but they are now a call to freedom. Providing the heartbeat for this great being that has been born from an ideal. Smiling faces shine a light into the darkness, drawing wayward travelers like moths to the only lantern in a dark forest. The illumination of truth amidst the shadowy profusion of towering lies.

Men and woman gather like a family reunion. Their hands are clasped together not like a chain, but like a rope that is woven, thrown to a drowning comrade. Here you see strands of black, yellow, red, white and brown, twining together in peaceful solidarity. A simple respect for anyone who happens to be standing next to you.

“Do you need a blanket?” “Do you need food? Shelter? A hug perhaps?” “Do you need a willing ear? Is there a viewpoint you would wish to share?” “I’m willing to aid you in any way I can.” “What is your name? I am a friend of yours, it is very nice to meet you.”

Beneath a grove of Rowan trees that are erupting from the concrete jungle in carefully planned and maintained mounds of soil. A full moon graces this moment, sifted through the boughs to dapple the surfaces of forbidden shelters. Rowan trees were once sacred, and still are, so it is fitting that these worshipers of peace should gather here.

“We are the 99%” They will say this with pride, and determination. In a world where so many thousands are speaking until the masses become a dehumanized faceless roar, they  are proving that with one message spoken together a thousand has a clear voice to speak. One million chanters has become one voice, one face, one set of clear eyes that peer into the offices of the mighty and gaze sternly down in disapproval.

This is not a revolution, it is an evolution.

 

 


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