#47

The sun sets early here. Earlier than you think it should, what with the heat and all. After a few days, the smell of the perfume you use starts to linger in the air of the bedroom. A couple of spritzes to help ward off the smell of the sweat that comes with the heat.

Mornings are quiet. The parakeets in the back yard awaken, squawking, flying around the yard. The pool, quiet, still. The night before, the wind, a hot wind, like a furnace, dry, blowing. Moths and butterflies flurry about. The parakeets return from their shady day time spots. The smell of the desert at night is unique, original, not usual.

But nothing is usual now. Noting is correct. The un-unusualness of it all leaves you lost and drifting, even if this is meant to be a correction of sorts. But drift you do, like the butterfly that finds it’s way into the pool and then, can’t escape.


Words I wrote one evening after drinking a beer and thinking that I was going somewhere. The book I’m writing, it’s all a miss match of notes on napkins and pieces of paper, thrown into a folder. But somewhere. I am somewhere, but where. Thankfully, not long after you called, and we met for a meal, and I was relieved to not spend that evening alone.