Category: Writing

A vole or a mole came in through a hole at the base of the door this morning. She wandered around sniffing the ground, scurrying across kitchen wood flooring. She climbed the screen door never quite sure how to get out of the house. A silly tale of a vole not a…

Sardine skies and coconut eyes, the wind shimmers in the trees. The brown-headed cowbird is a brood parasite – look it up. A groundhog has been digging at the mulch I used to cover up her den. I imagine the groundhog babies I might have accidentally trapped.  A sparrow picks at the gutters.

AQI. Apparently, it’s not good. The tickle in my lungs and throat already told me this. There are fires burning – which feels like a loaded statement about late-stage capitalism. We fight over whose suffering has been worse. “Now you know what we deal with.” Sympathy. None of us are getting out alive.

Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Lazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Crazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy, Hazy

Smoke from the fires up north clouds the morning sky. The sun can be looked at directly – it’s the most vibrant, glowing orange one can imagine. I want to keep looking but probably shouldn’t. The sky seems muted, hazy, pale, and sickly. My gaze returns, again and again, to that day-glow orb.

I rub my eye and it burns. It’s too early to be this tired. The night sky, not entirely dark, reminds me of youthful summers and running through neighborhood lawns and fields. The trees, now as they were then, are tall silhouettes marking the boundaries of sight before everything becomes darkened night.

A slight breeze sets me wondering, sets me googling… people also ask: What’s the point of a wind chime? Is it good to have wind chimes? What is the myth behind wind chimes? What does the gift of a wind chime mean? Do wind chimes bother neighbors?  I don’t need wind chimes.

The evening sunset blazing red. The tired mountains older than most. Last night’s fight. Today’s reconciliation. The dog who has made so much progress. The bird chirping her morning song. The band whose mic cut out. The little kids dancing in the tall grass. None of this will be remembered for long.

Robins gossip at daybreak. The peace lily by the back door recovers from an accidental drought. The weekly circular has a coupon for California cherries. I still have some in the fridge. Today we’ll feel the summer heat – near ninety. The dog will laze and pant and walk at an obstinate pace.

In the courtroom dream, the television cameras wore white wigs. They were evenly spaced apart in a square balcony looking down. Everything was the color of light wood. We waited for the accused. We waited for the sentencing.  There was no buzzing crowd, just the whir of a fan, the waiting wigs.

It’s the end of the day at the end of the month. My brain feels emptied out and sleep has a stranglehold on my attention. Cars race and rev in the distant night. The shade lifts and falls in the breeze. All the windows are open.  Six more words before I fall….

A waxing moon tilted sideways hangs in the early evening sky. She seems shy in her appearance with so much daylight left – not sure if she belongs or maybe she’s arrived early at the party before the host is ready. In this moment, the sun still commands the sky, brazen and blazin’.