Fern 2

Halfway through the season spring cleaning inspired the owner of the dying fern. By the time I walked past it again two days later, the plant had been removed, put in an organic waste bin. Only a single, weathered frond lay in its former place, the sole reminder of what had been. I felt to blame, a little bit, as if by voicing its observation I had written its demise.

No. 058

Hummingbird

A neighbor tends the garden in the courtyard: tomato plants, herbs, cacti, succulents, large agave growing upward and outward, deergrass spilling onto the sidewalk. To cultivate it further, he placed a birdfeeder or two, nestled among them. At first, the birds didn’t come. Instead, neighborhood squirrels climbed the plastic poles and stole the birdseed. Then, the coyotes lurked in the tall grass and caught the squirrels at dawn before the sun’s rosy hue enveloped the courtyard. 

Now, at dusk, a lone hummingbird’s hovering body can be seen, flitting among the plants, landing at the birdfeeder before disappearing into the night.

No. 049

Balance

Starling tiptoes across a telephone wire—squirrel rests along a metal fence—owl hoots into the night as the Santa Ana winds roll through the canyon, ruffling the leaves on the pines—housecat races across the road, dodging an oncoming car, slinking through the break in a wooden fence—sedans run stop signs in the night—skunks peer wearily from the drain that runs to the ocean, no dumping sign painted on the asphalt beside it—trash cans with duct-taped damage overflow into the road—everywhere I looked I saw reminders of a tightrope knife’s edge between two things and found myself, somehow, in a doorway—

No. 018