I want to be heard, not seen. The tick of the clock on the wall. The rustle of leaves in wind. The snort of deer in the trees. But no, I want more. I want to be the voice in the loudspeaker. The advocate righting wrongs. The words on the page. I dance along the fence of seen and not-seen. I twirl and bow when nobody’s looking. I speak out, then worry who I’ve offended. The young buck stands in the gravel driveway. I drive slow so my hybrid car shuts off the gas engine, runs on batteries. Stealth mode. I can hear each rock crackle under my tires. The buck dares me to come closer, closer yet. Each crackling second is like a tiny electrical charge. The buck leaps over the split rail fence as easily as neurotransmitters diffuse across synapse gaps to bind with receptor sites. Words. Neurons fire. I tolerate being seen to be heard.
A good perch
A different perspective
Farmers Market, a taste of local flavors.
Wealth in any community comes from its people and their efforts to beautify every member.
Rain's finally here again, after one of the hottest summers I've had in the city, a comfort of home.
...and this is how I found out Ornette Coleman has died...
We started the walk in bright sun and a light breeze. I convinced myself that the dark clouds in the distance were blowing away from us. I was wrong. Wet dog, wet human.
Graffiti and Ghost Signs