September 5, 2013
Spring water seeps down the bluffs and leaks onto the walking trail, forming shallow mud puddles. Then the mud dries, and pools of dirt remain. Yesterday, I saw one of those pools move, like electrons inside an atom, random and swirling. When I got to the pool,fifty or so male purple hairstreak butterflies the size of nail heads, their wing tops hued like concord grapes, were doing a dust dance in a spotlight of sun.They swarmed my shoe and sucked at my ankle. Did they send separate winds out to the greater world? silent, frenzied, sapid, miraculous.
About Eugene Jones Baldwin
I am a writer: non-fiction, fiction, journalism (Alton Telegraph), essays (The Genehouse Chronicles) and have a website: eugenebaldwin.com. I've published a couple dozen short stories and had eleven plays produced. Current projects: "Brother of the Stones" (available on Kindle), a book of short stories; "The Faithful Husband of the Rain, short stories"; "A Black Soldier's Letters Home, WWII,;" "There is No Color in Justice," a commentary on racism; "Ratkillers," a new play.
I am an avocational archaeologist and I take parts of my collection of several thousand Indian artifacts (personal finds) to schools, nature centers, libraries etc. and talk about the 20,000 year history of The First people in Illinois. (See link to website)
I'm also a playwright (eleven plays produced), musician, historian (authority on the Underground Railroad in Illinois, the Tuskegee Airmen) and teacher.
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