"When the dust settles..."

Which, of course, makes no sense at all,
because the dust will never settle;
it's not in the nature of dust to settle
but to scurry about
zinging this way and that
filling waterfalls of light
with mini taxicabs of action—
screaming mightily at the top of
their—well, dear reader,
you do need a little imagination here—
lungs
mite-sized, but no doubt lustily
singing little operettas to the
grand applause of the assembled,
but not quite settled,
multitudes.

A Sunday Afternoon—Everywhere

              A fragment of thought and conversation
              with Raquel de la Sevilla

                                              —Dale G. Haake

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