Diurnal

Afternoon, late spring. A neighbor’s overgrown garden sits in the shade, chimney covered with a tarp for months, chipped bricks piled at its base. From the weeds a coyote escapes, stepping gingerly between the plants and debris. The animal thin—it moves slowly, pauses to turn and look at us with a sense of disorientation behind its eyes. The sun shines off its pale grey coat as it returns to the shadows.

No. 088

Fern

On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die. 

No. 056

Disposal

An overturned Christmas tree juts out of a garbage can in the middle of April. I give them the benefit of the doubt: it can be easy to lose track of time amid everything else. In haste they left the string of lights and garland that shimmered in the spring sunlight. An uncanny shiver runs down my spine: I wonder where the April Christmas trees are in my life. Perhaps it’s too late to dispose of them.

No. 044