Atmospheric Disturbance 

by on April 20, 2024 :: 0 comments

photo "Rolls, Rolls, & Rolls" by Tyler Malone

The Camellia Japonica full bloom red back lit by the rising sun, a painting without paint yet by an unknown artist. The blooms arrived late March this year, three months later than last. The squirrels haven’t feasted on them yet for they didn’t notice their arrival. It will only be a matter of time. All in nature is beautiful and all is consumed by nature. Daffodils, hyacinth, tulips dot the garden where sprouts of Black-Eyed Susans, coneheads, day lilies poke through the ground. Iris blades cut the air as foxglove, aster, phlox, and butterfly weed clump in bed. Just in front of the garden, she walks the sidewalk; dances around grove joints; tip toes around cracks; hops over the curb onto the street. Begins her dance again over cracks in the asphalt. As she makes her way across the street she passes him–he who speaks to himself with massive gestures of hands and arms, nodding head, lips flapping, and no one is near him. He stops and watches the woman oddly dance on the sidewalk, shakes his head, and walks. A once beautiful sycamore stands with no foliage, no seeds dangling from limbs. Just a standing skeleton left behind by lantern flies who have moved on to another place for destruction. Just under rattling suckers and branches is a home covered in ivy, even the windows are not visible. Wooden entrance door is peeling and the cement steps are crumbling. Last year’s brown grasses a foot high break apart in wind, thistle colors the yard. A rusted square point shovel with a short handle leans against a battered back step. An old trolley rumbles and rattles over broken cobble stones on worn iron rails and on each corner, there are vendors as if at an open-air market. The forgotten and lost idle about sidewalks, steps of abandoned homes. Trash scattered, clings to curbsides, escapes onto sidewalks. Rising moon lurks behind dark clouds; wind cuts the skin.

Air thick with granules, orange sun rays filtered; thick dust swirling about, face masks quickly stained with fragments of wood. The first few drops fall and then a downpour, thunder booms. Lightning cracks as alleyways turn into small streams. Rooftops drain into gutters, brown dirty water and then clear from the washing rain. Sycamore is happy as root hairs pull water into the pipes of the tree and then a sigh, expulsion through stomata. Air is clean, water flowing, trees, plants. Down the park a mist hovers above the dry forest floor following downpour. Water wasted in the rush over hard soil to slow moving creek below where it now travels to the river. Wildlife scurries about searching for ponding water in gullies along trails; trees thirsty; roots extend out. Same storm, different outcomes. Air thickens like a batch of maple syrup, sweat pours out of everything.

Down river where it fills the bay there are breakers where something is brewing in the warm waters off the coast. Wind gusting, sand eroding as gulls fly outer bands until they reach the eye and wait for the end. Wind bullies water until a wall is built, pelts coastal strand with 100 mph fastballs of sandy granules, crunching until a hollow sound builds. Echoes as a wall of water slams into land and sneaks across the island into the bay and beyond. Erie silence, gulls scavenge what is left upon mounds of sand and debris. Coneheads scattered about the upper crust of sand.

editors note:

Right where you are, something is coming. You know, but it doesn’t know you’re there. That’s the relationship between us and our world, and the world as always and will always win. A true always-winning underdog. ~ Tyler Malone

Leave a Reply