I am standing in the Safway parking lot
while a big truck glides slowly past me.
The truck radio is blaring an old tune:
“All we are is dust in the wind . . .”
We don’t feel any breeze, not a whisper.
All is calm, all is bright.
Above the parking lot, there is a gray-white
criss-cross pattern being superimposed
on the canvas of deep blue sky.
It looks as if the pilots are playing
an aerial game of tic-tac-toe.
The design gradually begins to spread
into a filmy haze as the pilots continue
their spray game, eventually turning
a clear blue sky into a ghostly soup.
I’ve heard that the light from the sun is
composed of all the colors of the rainbow.
The sky looks blue because air molecules
scatter blue light from the sun more than
they scatter red light, says my computer.
What kind of light are those pilots scattering?
Janeshwar once said: light is not darkness,
but to itself, is it even light?
Once the big truck has parked and the driver
turns off the radio, I find a shopping cart.
We go wheeling through the supermarket,
carefully choosing the foods we like to eat.
We are not thinking of the windy dust,
the cloudy white light in the sky,
the old Hindu’s inquiry.
We are just being ourselves, while others
cruise the aisles with their shopping carts too.
Nobody says anything as we pass each other.
We pretend to be preoccupied with our mission.
Outside, the molecules of blue light surrender
to the gray-white muck, and now the wind
is picking up with scatterings of dust.
We look at the sky, then at each other.
For a moment, there is nothing to say.
At last we agree that we shopped well,
then drive home in radio silence.