Inside, it's quiet. There are dead plants and a warm, wet smell. A machine is whistling from another room. Rot and the promise of monsters in the middle of the afternoon.
Among flowers, a firefighter, frozen, clutches a small child.
From the border of her yard, she watched the ships pass in and out of the harbor. Even after they slid from view, she remained where she stood and observed how the water resettled in their wake.
Dashing across a road with no crosswalks, drivers unwilling to slow down or stop.
Smoke spreads from the grills, and music blares, and motors hum. Festivity means as much noise and odor as possible.
Wind sliding over bright sunny water.
They're crowing, they're pushing each other around, they've inked their baby-fine skin with flames and hearts. They're so young and so hellbent on piling experience on themselves, no matter what the cost, because they think that's the way to grow up faster.
A mineral-rich stream, pouring like a milkshake over pink and brown rocks.
Riding on a wave of shared interest as we leave the show and walk through side streets home.
"Minor, minor, minor," she chants, wriggling her fingers in the manner of a nefarious spell caster. She hears the spookiness in the C harmonic minor scale.
He speaks the lyrics of a Johnny Cash song, but his voice isn't suited for it. He sounds mild-mannered and hesitant, not at all comfortable voicing brokenness or anger. I sympathize with him. It's difficult to communicate brokenness or anger; from a young age you learn that people will usually punish you for expressing either.
What if most of her time is spent waiting at bus stops to go to medical appointments? And then coming home, and sinking onto a chair, no energy to remove her shoes.
He asks me, "Are you feeling OK?" in a tone that both accuses and begs for reassurance.
The iron rooster hasn't swiveled for the wind in years.