Category: Writing

Morning chill and light frost bestill the air and grass. It’s the type of dawn one might call unseasonably cool. Inside, two tomatoes the size of tiny fists ripen on the counter next to a hunk of bread in a paper bag. The dishes dry on the rack next to the sink.

The old man on the porch calls out to the couple walking behind me, “hey, are you two married?” The young woman responds with enthusiasm – “We’re engaged!” She shares this as though it’s a recent development. Momentarily, her joy pulls out my crankiness and brooding.  Though not enough to appreciate the sunshine.

I stare at the dining room table and the mess that is my scattered energies: two stacks of documents that need to be sort, bank checks from an account I closed, several books of poetry and a notebook, a book a friend shared with me, an external drive, paintbrushes, plants, breakfast plate.

Aside from a few birds singing and chatting with the most urgent news, evening does what evening does… falls, descends, envelops, arrives without fanfare. There are no spectacular gradations of lights. It just becomes dark and the houselights go on – kitchen, living room, bedroom. It’s all quite unremarkable. Don’t tell the birds.

The kitchen smells of onions, garlic, bacon, and collards cookin’ on the stove. The rest of the house is wood-smoke and barbecue. Mesquite and hickory seeps in every open window. The dog doesn’t understand dance parties in the kitchen or the simple pleasure of a beer on a lazy back porch Sunday.

When it rains, it’ll be the type of rain that begins slowly and lightly and eases into steadiness. These aren’t the clouds of deluge. These aren’t the advancing thunderheads from which birds will flee. A house wren sings in a nearby pine. A line of shrubs bloom fuchsia in the graying dawn.

The echo of lumber and plywood being tossed on a demo pile reminds me of the echo of lumber being tossed. Reminds me of the nail gun pops of a roof being installed. Reminds me of the click clack sound of a skateboard jumping and landing in the concrete plaza. Click clack.

A single plane streaks across a slate blue sky. Its contrails glow white with hints of peach. It falls like a shooting star. When the plane is gone and the trail has disappeared, two blackbirds chase each other. This stop-motion animated sky can only hold one bit of action at a time.

Because there is no pool, no sandy beach, no rough jetty, there are no lifeguards here. No whistles to warn when out too far, or the currents are strong. Mistakes are easily made when no one’s around admonishing us to walk. In my closet, a beach towel. There are no lifeguards here.

The motor whirs the spool of nylon round and round chewing through the grass along the edges of the house, the fence, the shed. The noise is fat and slobbery like raspberries on a baby’s belly.  Daylight fades to the high chorus of rpm. Thankfully, I don’t need to hear myself think.

Savor the morning light, the coffee steam, the robin’s song. A squirrel bounces from limb to limb shaking the rain from grape colored maple leaves. Zipping birds race their shadows – up the walls, over the house. The grass is thick and green and drying out. Nature’s to-do list on a Monday morning.