Companion

The riverbank sloped down to the water. I stood barefoot in the grass, morning dew caressing my feet. Lifting the rod above my head, I loosen my grip and cast the line into the water, sending ripples outward to either bank. A moment of calm—I hold my breath and listen: the cry of a bird, the croak of a frog, the lapping of the water against the bank. A cloud above moves, and the sun illuminates the opposite bank. Across the river, I see them: a pair of yellow eyes in a skull of scaly skin. I leave the line in the water and hold my breath again.

No. 129

Planning

The city planted a sapling beside the sidewalk, so in its adulthood it would provide necessary shade. As it grew, the root network extended out, pressing against the pavement, turning it over. Between the cracks, flowering weeds sprouted among the roots. Now on a summer day, the cracks run green and pedestrians walk with care.

No. 114

Bees

Before I rounded the corner, I heard them: the dull hum of dozens of bees fluttering from flower to flower. From the winter rain came budding growth, and the hillside trail became overgrown, flowering weeds sprouting into the thin, dusty trail. I apologized to the bees as I pressed forward, rocking stems with my shins. In forgiveness, they decided not to sting.

No. 048

Gossamer

Round the corner and past a pole—unseen by my eyes a thin gossamer hangs taut between a stop sign and a streetlight. Caught on my glasses, I wiped it away hurriedly, brushing the web in frantic movements. It’s one of my pet peeves, breaking them. There’s the worry I didn’t remove it all, or had a spider in my hair, and the knowledge that I alone destroyed its creation.

No. 037