Category: Writing

My neighbor walks his roof. He bends and picks debris – tosses it to the ground. Up and over the apex he disappears. He returns with white strands of tangled lights. He dangles his legs over the edge. His unsure foot feels for the top rung of a ladder that doesn’t quite reach.  

The planet is 4.54 billion years old. 4.54 billion years of history have been building to this. This morning, this day, this sun-kissed frosty blade of grass, and this bead of water rolling down the drain of the kitchen sink. An entrance billions of years waiting behind a curtain, stage left. Hello.   

A MASSIVE HAWK stands watch on top of a fence post. Her head swivels as we pass. The dog stops to pee. The hawk remains – unflinchingly close. In a dream last night, a hawk picked her way through a thatch wall just above where I slept. I had forgotten it until now.

My morning walk is interrupted by a series of questions. Is the width between the tines of the fork on a front loader garbage truck standardized? If so, how did this come to be? Was there a conference of haulers? Men in suits in Indianapolis arguing cost efficiencies, competition, collaborations, and consolidations?

The sky wants nothing to do with capitalism. The trees do not start their day in worry. The ground, frozen and obstinate, hardens itself. It strikes against forces that insist on pliability and compliance. Paint brushes stand tall in the coffee mug saying put us to use, but not for anything useful.  

A crow in a nearby pine sounds her crow alarm. Her one note metronome stretches through thin air and across empty yards. The school bus flashes yellow, then red. Elementary school children grip the silver rail and climb steps too big for tiny legs. The door folds shut. The crow has stopped.

Roots tangle. Roots tangle in a glass vase. Roots tangle in a glass vase full of water. Sprouting from cut stems, roots tangle and brown in a glass vase full of water. Sprouting from cut stems beneath the Philodendron, roots tangle and brown in a glass vase full of water. Roots tangle.

Friends say hi with a quick “go birds.” Pass, run, score, kick, and sack. They won and my feed is green. Pics from Broad Street show it’s packed. I hear the poles are greased.  Big game in two weeks, I’m sure I’ll watch. Next time, I’ll write with more than one syllable.

Ice melts in the silver spun afternoon of a warming day. The dog rests his chin on the sofa. He looks out the window like a child with a broken leg watching her friends shriek and play run-around games in early spring. It’s January and this won’t last. So few things do.

Full of giddy up and gallop, the dog noses through last night’s dusting of snow. The road beneath is slick. His sudden pull and my lack of purchase send my thoughts sliding towards catastrophe or at least cartoonish visions of minor embarrassments and slapstick calamities.  A cautious penguin walks a playful horse.   

The blacktop shines and glistens like glass or polished coal – maybe ice. This street dark mirror reflects streetlight and stoplight and headlight glow, yet still black and deep as an abyss. The parking lot of the Panda Express is full. Cars shuffle in and out. “Martha My Dear” plays on the stereo.

Wood smoke scents the morning air. Someone is up early with the fire going. I breath deeply as if unlocking a memory primeval and pleasant. The day is stitched together with anticipation, a winter storm moving in (or maybe not). I want to get things in order, nest, maybe light a fire.