Afternoon sunlight drapes the town, and I think of an old woman wearing a shawl. I saw her one afternoon, napping in a wheelchair with a cane back, blocking most of the sidewalk on a narrow street of decayed Victorian houses with overgrown yards. On a low concrete wall nearby sat an old man wearing a fedora and reading a newspaper. I walked past them quietly, and a dozen yards or so beyond I turned and surreptitiously took a picture. I have it somewhere, tucked away with other relics of that time. Everything I saw in that place is now gone. That day was like this one, a river of cool air shot with flecks of light, masses of fresh green leaves splashed with the color of blooming flowers, yet when I think of it, the vision which comes to mind is that of an aging black and white photograph.
Today, I saw the first hummingbird of the year. It was so small that at first I mistook it for a butterfly as it hovered in a cloud of apple blossoms. When it drew near, I heard its wings and recognized it. It shot through the air and vanished, a brief burst of energy at odds with the placid day.
There were no oranges today. My brain has no sugar in it and will not work. I'm going back to sleep.