It is a blue of a furtive timbre, rich and slightly hesitant, abiding in the levity of the passing moment, trying to decide if you are the type to trust with secrets. It seems to be set upon by such green reaching that the bright and sunny yellows of new leaf become untethered in the giddiness of the spectrum. The long notes and the sad refrain, a gull of silvers and grays circling in such a stretch of blue sky.
The wind works the chimes hanging from the porch, beats out bells and gongs. A dog sneezes, rooting through alyssum and aloe vera, ice plant crunching beneath cracked pads and the longing of claws. A ragged cactus sways upon a worn stake and a nylon rope. "If not now, soon," gravity seems to say.
All the weeds make their mark on planning, reminding of all the labor spent to make this story. A fable made of green hills and English gardens, of war and disease and technology and theft. The place we are always seeming to be forever, however fragile the foundation and the firmament. The brittle expanse of these GI bill oases, shrub and fence and every breath paved over. The world worrying at the fissures and the cracks, life always that same song. That steady reaching, that niche to breach. The vivid line of necessity that permits all possibility.
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