Blue Gate

This morning, the last day of November, on my walk I saw a red tile roof that sheltered a white stucco house and its arched doorways. But for the rain and wet leaves underfoot, I could have been in Andalusia. My friend Sonny’s glazed green tile roof shimmered in the damp. One-hundred years ago had the builder known the roofs of Beijing’s old quarters? Up a hill, another tile roof, its rust color muted by the rain. It sloped down to a wall of patterned brick, alternate red and cream-colored bands, as if to create a miniature Tuscan villa, a Renaissance echo in the heart of America.

At the corner on my way home, an azure blue, wrought-iron gate to nowhere hung from two free-standing posts. The gate swung gently back to forth, forth to back, open to infinite possibility.

 

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