rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Swept Clean

Giving the mosquitoes their shot, I sit on the back porch watching the evening deepen. The scotch broom that lines the cross street two lots south grows taller each year, and this year its massed yellow blossoms hide the houses beyond, except for the chimney and part of the roof of one. I used to see people come and go there, but now I only hear the disembodied sounds of doors closing or cars leaving driveways or kids playing in front yards. This does not displease me. I've always been fond of hedges and the air mystery they create. The bright yellow flowers of the broom are a bonus.

Broom is classified as a noxious invasive plant in California, of course, but the harm it does doesn't extend to damaging the eyes of anyone gazing upon it. In fact I'd say it's easier on the eyes than many of California's native plants. Besides, I could be considered an invasive species here myself, so I guess the broom and I have something in common. It's just that the authorities aren't going to try to poison me. Well, as far as I know they aren't. If they do I'll hide in the broom, and we can be safe or die together. On the other hand if they only come for the broom, the plant is on its own. I don't like it that much.

Oh, the heat is getting to me. Fried brain. It's the year's first wave of heat. I hope I adjust to it soon. It seems to take me a bit longer to do so each year. But as compensation, the jasmine has bloomed. Overnight, thousands of white blossoms opened. Tonight will be both cool and perfumed. I intend to be up all night, inhaling. Now it really feels like June.




Sunday Verse



Pigeons at Dawn


by Charles Simic


Extraordinary efforts are being made
To hide things from us, my friend.
Some stay up into the wee hours
To search their souls.
Others undress each other in darkened rooms.

The creaky old elevator
Took us down to the icy cellar first
To show us a mop and a bucket
Before it deigned to ascend again
With a sigh of exasperation.

Under the vast, early-dawn sky
The city lay silent before us.
Everything on hold:
Rooftops and water towers,
Clouds and wisps of white smoke.

We must be patient, we told ourselves,
See if the pigeons will coo now
For the one who comes to her window
To feed them angel cake,
All but invisible, but for her slender arm.
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