August 2010

Three small flies gather on the top railing, wandering back and forth on the straight white road like lost commuters. Today will be hot.

Cloudless at sunrise except for my puffs of breath. A junco with bright new plumage flies out of the woods and veers past my face, chirping.

The sound of deer running through the woods, and from over the ridge, that highway whine: we race through the deserts of our own making.

Cool and clear. The hair I cut last night by moonlight, leaning over the rail with the electric clippers, still shines silver in the weeds.