Fog means the painters didn't finish in time this morning. If you blew it away you would see the colorless outlines of this world that they make up as they go along, made fresh daily, wet paint. If you're not careful you'll get the world all over your hands and it will never come off, until they repaint your hands tonight while you sleep.
This morning I watched, just visible through the fog, a hawk light on a freeway exit sign. It made me curious, once again, if birds ever wonder to themselves, "What the hell is this thing on which I'm perched?" Exit signs, billboards, telephone poles, microwave relay towers, traffic lights, golden arches, street lights. What are these things? Perhaps, however, birds aren't so scientific or observant. Maybe they wonder the same things about trees and craggy mountain cliffs. "What is this world?" they wonder. "Where did it come from? Is that a rabbit?"
I'm sitting on this chair by the window, looking out at the dissipating fog. I know what the chair is, and I know what the fog is. I even know what a microwave relay tower is. I mostly wonder why. And sometimes I wonder what other animals wonder. I'm so easily distracted by all the things I know and all the things I wonder. I wonder what a rabbit thinks as the ground disappears below it, sharp pain of talons in its back and sides, just before everything goes black. Mark that rabbit off the list, boys. We won't be painting him tomorrow.
Hello, friends. How are you?
Later. Love.
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