Sunday night. Sitting outside in the heat — beginning to abate somewhat. The heat that is. Me? I’m not abating at all. Waiting? Maybe. For something I’m not sure.
In the meantime, I have squirrels squirreling around. Coming closer for nuts. Closer, then rushing away. Closer, then running. Isn’t that the way life is. The way we all are?
Bromeliads are blooming. And I feel good. The heat. The singular beauty in front of me. The rodents at my feet. Boomer is at the window, licking his chops and wondering why I’m fraternizing with the enemy.
Friday night were the Perseids. I was watching around 4 a.m., from inside this time. Prone on my couch, the cool leather giving a reprieve to my skin. Looking out the tall windows toward the sky. The moon, on the other side of the horizon from when I saw it around 11 pm, subdued by the clouds but still illuminating … everything: my car in the drive, the shrubs, glinting off the bird bath.
Meteors flashing across a Sturgeon Moon sky.
I couldn’t see a one. But I knew they were there. Flying by on their way to somewhere. Whipping by in all their immediacy. Their urgency.
Make a wish. Quick. All the more reason if you can’t see them.