Bright blue sky. A persistent breeze.
The stop sign sways on the electrical pole—it has its own rhythm. No metre—nature doesn’t have metre, but durations, like Messiaen, or ancient Greek music, or Bergsonian duration.
A mosquito bites my right index finger, compliments of all the recent rain.
A row house sits across the street, verdantly bedecked in bucolic splendor, even while the second story is covered in cheap gray siding, marring the beautiful maroon cornice.
Cars drive by vomiting noise from their radios. Sometimes they actually stop at the intersection, and occasionally one yields to a pedestrian.
The shadows lengthen early. Summer fades. Are those the last roses of the year over there?
Everything is transitory. Perhaps that is depressing. Perhaps not.
Maybe it’s even liberating. Maybe we are not bogged down by the material world after all.