Last Light

An angry email from a colleague arrives. A text message: the car insurance is due. The dog, the plants, the dishes. Rush out of the house to catch the last light—smoke from the Simi Valley rises above the horizon. The sun sinks. A breath in: pieces of ash, then a cough.

No. 070

Orange flesh

Spiral recurrences: a life repeating, no—growing, changing, stepping up or down. Every moment is an opportunity for new beginnings. Mandarin orange peeled when the thumb presses into the bottom and breaks flesh. Eight even pieces, torn apart. Canine teeth pierce the membrane and juice comes spilling out. Always you can find a way to say, Now.

No. 019

Coyote

On the moonlit asphalt there came a coyote. Slender, slim-footed he scampered down the road, paws lightly grazing the ground, appearing almost to float across it as he stalked some prey. Then, he stopped beneath the hazy glow of a yellow stoplight. Ears perked up at the sound of my footsteps across uneven rocks. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes locking onto mine immediately. For a moment beneath the moon we considered each other. Then: a car alarm; a barking dog; a laugh from a party in the apartment across the street. My head turned at the noise, and upon returning to the spot beneath the lamp, found the coyote had already disappeared back into the night.

No. 011

Bifurcation

A rupture: knife slices cloth, or worse. The seconds that separate conscious moments. Stolid, impassive window above my desk: peace broken by two birds, arced across the sky, visible to me behind a fluorescent glare for only a few seconds.

No. 003