Category: Writing

The tallest tulip tree I’ve ever seen blooms yellow flowers with cantaloupe orange Charlie Brown zigzags. Down the street a small blackbird has been flattened into the road – its legs splayed out like a stick-figure drawing of the bird.  I imagine every branch of every tree has been touched by something living.

From high above, the hawk screeches her bottle-rocket whistle. When the heavy bee (maybe hornet) buzzes by, I turtle my head and neck into my shoulders as if its buzz might sting my ears. How natural our instinct to duck – make ourselves small in the face of threats heard but not seen.

In the mid-morning sun, the dog pants. He looks like he’s smiling but really, he’s just hot. He drinks from the silver water bowl that glints bright from sunlight. A spindle of spittle stretches from his jowls before it snaps and falls to the ground. I’m glad he didn’t shake it off.

Sun glares on the midday deck. The day heats up. A group of grackles buzzes close. I feel and hear their rapid wingbeats.  I close my eyes, tilt my head up towards the sun, breathe deep and expand into the moment. The top half of a ghost moon hangs in the distance.

The purple leaves on the maple tree aren’t purple. They have a purple hue but are really a deep and waxy green. I thought of writing “purple leaf” twenty-six times. Could I count twenty-six or fifty-two leaves without getting lost in my count? Would a gust of wind make me lose track?

Birds peck the ground and pick the trees searching for sustenance. Each act is a small practice in faith and hope. They find what they need and move on. They pause on the branches and telephone lines singing little songs of joy and fullness. Oh, how to move with such tiny confidence.

Two birds chatter. I imagine one interviewing the other for some bird job. The candidate bird says, “I’ve been a bird all my life.” She chirps about the time a hawk threatened the nest, and her talent for procuring worms and seeds. “Very impressive” says the interviewer bird. “When can you start?”

The evening is quiet, muffled. I can hear the dog breathing, almost snoring. The fluorescent light above the sink hums the way fluorescent lights hum. Then there are my thoughts, the narrator whose voice sounds like mine, but not audible. That’s the noisiest part of night – this running dialogue, this empty space.

A cloud drifts in front of the morning sun, deadens its glare and warmth. I stopped trying to count how many colors I see. I ran out of names for them. With the shifting light everything changes, always. This reddish-brown decking is different today, in this light, which is only happening now.

The air is soaked with the ancient smell of rain and far away dust. Someone writes a letter to a person they miss. At a churchyard, a couple exchanges vows. A recent grad buys shirts for their first day of work. This ancient air smells of fresh rain and far away dust.

Light breeze and sunshine – the kind they call wall to wall. Light breeze and sunshine – it’s spring, it’s not fall. It’s a rhyming and playful type of day, a rhyming and playful type of May. The songbirds are singing the wind chimes are ringing… screw you, I’m not finishing on a rhyme.