Cloudy, calm, sixty-one degrees. Twice during this morning’s run, I was met with the scent of star jasmine, and once with that of a cigarette. Then someone, perhaps unable to bear the dark and the quiet, or the idea of facing another day of meaningless, underpaid drudgery, set off a loud firework somewhere to the east. The silence, though, didn’t mind; it held the noise close until it died in its gentle, comforting embrace. A firework is an angry declaration, a desperate statement to make to one’s neighbors at four-thirty in the morning. And of course the explosion is bound to turn inward.
Another successful watering for our beautiful basket of flowers and juncos. I told the mother to please let me know if the water was too much, that she simply needed to pop up, and I would immediately desist. She held her peace.
Yesterday afternoon we found a medium-sized dead rat behind the house, the victim of an apparent poisoning. It’s a dirty trick to play on a fellow creature, giving it something that tastes good and which it thinks is food, only to cause a violent pain in its stomach and a terrible, unquenchable thirst. Then again, our grocery store aisles are lined with many substances that lead to a similar effect, and which are advertised and sold as food. A good name for one of these highly processed, nutrition-free delicacies might be “Justice Is Served.”
July 7, 2022
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Categories: A Few More Scratches
Tags: Cigarettes, Cruelty, Death, Fireworks, Flowers, Juncos, Justice, Pain, Peace, Rats, Running, Silence, Star Jasmine, Thirst
William Michaelian 
Bless the ‘foodstuff’ some have been subject by circumstance to consume.
Bless the juncos that do not find a nest in a flowery haven
and the ‘rats’ that take an unexpected route home.
I’m still trying to find a place in my heart to bless fireworks (ugh).
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And bless me for saying so, but simulated warfare seems a strange way to celebrate one’s “freedom.” I’ll settle for a starry night sky anytime ~
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Deeply rooted in their culture, Mexican people use these ‘pyroglyphs’ as expressions of love and life…and mourning. To me, they are an assault upon the senses… even with no cultural or historical story attached.
(a W.ise M.an once said) “…how much of what I tell is made up? And what part of it is true? All, all.”
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And a not-so-wise one once said, “Love it all. Never look away.” I do appreciate the added perspective of each of your observations, and your kind, nonjudgmental way of making them.
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