Category: Daily Fifty-Two

This thunder doesn’t clap. It moves and rolls like heavy furniture. This rain doesn’t drive. It ribbons and lashes. The green-gray green sky swirls and trees dance a frantic dance, all jazz hand leaves and shimmy branches.  This storm rides in on syncopation: floor toms, kick drums, snare pops, and yes, claps.

The day begins in silver light, deck boards slicked in dew. A scribbled note on the front of a plain envelope reads, we go where we sense progress: flow, river, resistance. It’s supposed to say least resistance. Yesterday’s woody path smelled of honeysuckle. The clouds in another country bruise purple and red.

The air is still and almost thick. Barefoot puddles on the deck after the evening rain remind me of summer days and wet sand shores. The sun slides behind clouds. It’s a good burn day. The jays sound like gulls. An ocean of traffic thrums along the boulevard of this Pennsylvania coastline.

Tail wagging and sniffer sniffing, the dog hunts treats hidden throughout the house. It’s a poor substitute for the rabbit he coveted earlier. We make the best with what we’ve got. Today, I’ll feed and water the plants. They’re starting to droop. Today, I’ll dole out treats intended to show I care.

I don’t want to curse the rain… yet… I wish it could hold off until after I walk the dog. He’s slow, sluggish, and stubborn in the rain. I don’t feel like driving the 50-some highway miles to a meeting – trucks spraying as I/they pass. In this respect, I am my dog.

A vibrant cardinal sits in a lush pine. A few houses over, a child screams as he plays. I can’t describe the scream, I can only say what it’s not. It’s not high pitched. It’s not guttural. Maybe mid-range with fast vibrato? The cardinal has flown away. Strong winds shake the trees.

Every day in June has felt like an important date. I write the date, June 20th, and say to myself, I feel like something happened on the 20th, some distant anniversary long fogged over. These false or forgotten memories feel oddly comforting – as though I’ve been here before. I know this day.

This sunlight on my closed eyes paints everything pink. I imagine a wall of pink and orange gradients. I imagine blackbirds mid-flight stark against the colored wall. Somewhere there’s a sky of blue and sidewalks the color of sand. A vendor wheels his metal lunch cart clanging over dips in the road.

Honeysuckle Sundays drip sweet sunshine in overgrown breezeways. Everything is coming up golden yet I can already taste fall’s brittle scarecrow. Today the corn is sweet. Whisper in the wind (today the corn is sweet). My shoes shuffle, my feet the street.  We wear each other down in this slowly dying town.

In the morning sun, a squirrel hangs upside down from a bird feeder. She spills seeds onto the ground where two squirrels forage beneath. Some would see this as cooperation – evidence of a higher order. I feel smug in recognizing it as little more than opportunity – calling it by its rightful name.

In the hour just before midnight the music plays. This could go on all night. Sweet soul, saucy groove, the evening spools. Together, we’re hemmed in like the hard plastic cassette case of a mix tape. Bass drops, songs fade, this is the winding road to Reno. The stars are always there.

It’s 5 am. The thinnest slice of a curved moon hangs above the silhouetted trees. A robin talks and tweets her head silly. She has news to spread. The horizon begins to blush – barely able to keep its secrets, the embarrassment of riches it’s about to usher in. Sky lightens. World awakens.