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