Iguana

“I like the way they creep,” the woman beside us said.

Behind her, an iguana, nearly four feet long (tail included), sauntered along the edge of the pool. Its dirty yellow claws scraped along the pavement as its reptilian limbs arced along the surface, barely a centimeter above the ground, step by step. Then, in a rush of movement, the iguana became vertical and stuck its claws into the bark of a palm tree. In a few quick strides, it climbed up to the canopy above. The tail caught on a browning, dead palm frond that swiftly fell to the ground below. 

No. 034

bends

In the distance: Baldwin Hills rise on the horizon, southeast of our parking garage. Fire lanes drape the side of the mountain like a sash, or garland across a tree. From my vantage, I see two lanes, one above, one below; perhaps these are continuations of the same road, forced to curve along the mountain, rounding itself in rhythmic turns to aid the climb of motor vehicles. Just then, I notice along the top road a white vehicle descending, and at the same time, a black vehicle ascending. All at once a symphony of movement along the side of the hill, taken in through my soft-focus gaze.

No. 008