Day 735, July 7, 2022

A July Day in the Town of Washed Out Bridges

Today there were clouds that made it seem like rain 
in the town of washed out bridges. 
There are children playing with bubbles, 
and a duo strumming and drumming under the tent, 
tunes that make me think of Lucinda Williams. 
My wife thinks the singer looks like Oates. 
It is strange to be out, and wonderful, but mostly strange, D. says. 
There are Korean grilled chicken sandwiches, burgers and hotdogs. 
And beer. 
It is a July day in a scalloped existence.
So different, so strange. 
A humming bird sits on a wire and watches over the yard, 
head in constant motion even at rest. 
I can smell the garlic seared on the grate. 
The neighbors are out sampling the wares. 
So many people, M. marvels. So many people.

Spring in the permaculture garden.


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