Two stinkbugs were crawling along the
bamboo shades. They were dim and heavy in the shadows, like tiny Jim
Henson puppets- manually animatronic. A storm was gathering and the
air moved with hungry vigor from the west. Some moisture was sent
down from the dark line of clouds, like the spray from a cock pulled
out at climax, or a boy spitting watermelon seeds with acuity.
The exhaustion of a few bad years hung
around low on my forehead, and the purple wool blanket scratched my
chest. I wanted to sleep through the rest of the heavy, moist
afternoon- but that was every afternoon, for me. I was worn out. I
wasn't thirty yet and already my hair was falling out, I swear it
gets thinner each time I notice. My eyes were heavy and dull, but my
mind raced with possibilities. Never shuts up. It thinks it knows
everything.
The storm front passed quickly and
there was a lull in the trees. But the wind- the beautiful, pure,
magical living air, breathe of the earth, moved in bursts. Thank
goodness for trees, they are prophets. People don't love trees the
way they should. They don't even love one another, usually.
Then the sun shone, and rain fell down
with a bright gentle sound, and the day changed again.
5/19/19
