What are we waiting for? While waiting for the planet to revolve the Heywood Park oak that presided over the baseball diamond past syzygy with sun and Grandstands, a happy man cashed his share, as it were, for the symbolum (the two halves of a broken coin). C. G. Jung said, "live the symbolic life." Old scavenger after the great discardments. His inspirations since the wonders of Saturn's Return (around age 29, 30, an astrologist told him, one jaunt of that huge ringed slow outward-looking god around the sun since this man's birth, signalling a launch of the soul toward the outer planets, beyond the family of origin), now sport with childhood's afterlife through the crowded green crown of this big Garry oak: related, as sunshine patching shadow with half-shadow, but his old cross-umbrage, cold-cast darkness had longed for full summer sunshine. He considered his sun-hours, inspirations with the warm morning sun, as a crown-chakra diadem (shades [?][sic]1. of Apollo) now at the peak of our period of waiting.

Guess I'll make a bid for serenity, thought he. For atonement. For participation mystique. For play! For comedy. For honed sensitivity which feels its way into the curved interior of this gentle autumn wind, and which noise in the system precluded, relegated to the exterior of chosen daily joys. Now then: the moment of oak-dawn, on the last day of September.