From the eyes of the purple coat orange grocery store bag woman comes a very thin channel that reaches all the way out to distant shuddering waterfallmist expanses. She’s looking far off into this place. It’s nothing special. The eyes of every living being look there. The firm knowledge of that fact creates a firmness in the woman’s gaze. If she looked at you she would look right through you, but tenderly. She’s walking with a little girl. They walk slowly past the grey slush and No Parking sign. Other people are walking past them quickly. The rumble of the train on the bridge is spurring the other people on. The approaching evening is spurring the other people on. The other people are spurring each other on. Now the little girl looks up at the woman. The little girl looks straight into the mountainous poem in the woman’s eyes that no one sees (I, too, can only guess at its presence). The woman is a little bit embarrassed at being seen so innocently in the middle of her life, but she smiles. She smiles in a way that does not at all involve her face. It’s nothing special. There’s nothing special about the universal connection. It’s universal. Now the little girl’s face is asking a question. The answer is yes. Despite the whole filthy landslide of human progress, it is. This is their secret.

by Eric Green