5/19/19

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