William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


Late yesterday evening a very active thunderstorm passed through this part of the valley, moving northwest from the Cascades, bringing with it a spectacular display of lightning and enough thunder to wake the dead. And yet somehow, I fell asleep before it was over — but not before I heard the music of heavy rain landing on the roof and on the plants outside. That, and being generally exhausted from the work of removing the ivy, were enough to carry me away.

The streets are dry this morning, though clouds and a very strong wind from the southwest still prevail. The ground and garden are wet. The atmosphere is charged and alive, the clouds illuminated by city lights — very pleasant indeed for my four-thirty run.

Daylight. I was planning to water the garden today. It looks like that won’t be necessary. The spiders, young, healthy, and rapidly growing, have already rebuilt their webs and have taken up their positions, ready and waiting. The clover is revived — one might even say inspired. The pine, cedar, vine, fig, and apricot have all been washed clean of their coating of pollen and dust. Atop the big philodendron, a new leaf is just beginning to open. It looks like it will be the largest yet, and even in this tender, early stage, its splits are easily discerned.

Afternoon. Seventy-two degrees with some sun. I finished removing the ivy all the way around the fir and trimmed what’s growing on the fence. For the time being, the area looks like a well-groomed forest floor. Best of all, just as I was gathering up the shovel, rake, pruning shears, and hedge clippers, I saw a nuthatch and a junco in the birdbath. Within a foot of each other, the junco was splashing away, while the nuthatch was drinking its fill. In between, they sounded like they were chatting about something. And as close as I was, they didn’t mind me at all.

Memories and old photographs. I fall from the precipice, into the present.

August 10, 2022


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Categories: A Few More Scratches

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