rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The heat will be returning for a week. This afternoon the north wind blew the desert's dryness here, to make the brown grass crackle and to dessicate the oak leaves. More of the leaves are falling, and it will soon be time to fetch the rake and start uncovering the lawn. A few days of desert winds are likely to bury it. I'll wait for a cooler day before raking, though. Desert winds and rakes don't play well together. The wind would rather play with the leaves.

Tonight the wind has fallen still, silencing the leaves, letting the cicadas and crickets have their turn at serenading the woods. The waning moon's light paints the houses, and flickers from the barely-stirred pine needles. The air is still warm, and heavily scented with dry grass. Old summer has fallen asleep, and the night is its dream of its vanished youth.

Sunday Verse


by Federico García Lorca

My shadow glides in silence
over the watercourse.

On account of my shadow
the frogs are deprived of stars.

The shadow sends my body
reflections of quiet things.

My shadow moves like a huge
violet-colored mosquito.

A hundred crickets are trying
to gild the glow of the reeds.

A glow arises in my breast,
the one mirrored in the water.

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