Mar 21 23
Fortunately, because someone missed a meeting, we’re alone, eating an egg McMuffin parked on an empty road of the Mountain View cemetery. It’s mid-morning and raining steadily.
Among the graves a coyote is hunting a squirrel. It’s using the staggered stones as cover. When about 10 feet away, from the already pitiably edgy creature, it bounds out. But, incurably ready, the squirrel escapes into the soggy, shadowed branches of an oak. The coyote is left looking up, head tilted like any old house dog. We dislike the feeling of not knowing who to root for.
But the coyote turns, trotting off as nonchalant and dignified as ever. At a far distance it pauses and looks back toward the oak, then vanishes into a low hedge of jade plants; they’re in bloom, gushing soft pink flowers.
At the cemetery gates, preventing us from turning left, a semi truck, with cab and trailer of a wildly spotless vermillion, is descending the sloped road. It’s like a mad secular fire engine and feels unrelated to anything around. We follow its downshifting, rapt, turning our head like a slow motion spectator watching a slow motion tennis match. Behind it, the mountains are atypically dusted with snow, in pale variance.
From the opposite direction, coming up the sidewalk, is a woman carrying a rather large child. The child is clinging with arms and legs like a weird, reverse backpack or a clothed sloth. The child’s head is laying sideways on the woman’s shoulder. Every few seconds the woman draws her head back then wiggles it into the child’s neck. They are both convulsing with laughter, seemingly oblivious to the rain and all else.
On the street a few blocks from our office, a strong wind has blown a large, thick clear plastic tarp into a tree. It hangs and sways like a disembodied bridal veil from a time long past. But, to be sure, it is definitely a tarp.
Among the graves a coyote is hunting a squirrel. It’s using the staggered stones as cover. When about 10 feet away, from the already pitiably edgy creature, it bounds out. But, incurably ready, the squirrel escapes into the soggy, shadowed branches of an oak. The coyote is left looking up, head tilted like any old house dog. We dislike the feeling of not knowing who to root for.
But the coyote turns, trotting off as nonchalant and dignified as ever. At a far distance it pauses and looks back toward the oak, then vanishes into a low hedge of jade plants; they’re in bloom, gushing soft pink flowers.
At the cemetery gates, preventing us from turning left, a semi truck, with cab and trailer of a wildly spotless vermillion, is descending the sloped road. It’s like a mad secular fire engine and feels unrelated to anything around. We follow its downshifting, rapt, turning our head like a slow motion spectator watching a slow motion tennis match. Behind it, the mountains are atypically dusted with snow, in pale variance.
From the opposite direction, coming up the sidewalk, is a woman carrying a rather large child. The child is clinging with arms and legs like a weird, reverse backpack or a clothed sloth. The child’s head is laying sideways on the woman’s shoulder. Every few seconds the woman draws her head back then wiggles it into the child’s neck. They are both convulsing with laughter, seemingly oblivious to the rain and all else.
On the street a few blocks from our office, a strong wind has blown a large, thick clear plastic tarp into a tree. It hangs and sways like a disembodied bridal veil from a time long past. But, to be sure, it is definitely a tarp.