My patio is tucked in the elbow of the plaza, just three giant steps from the fountains that roar above the sound of 94.
It’s a vortex, really, for anything unwanted in the universe.
A magnet for whatever the wind picks up —
Or people above drop —
Or shed.
White cottony masses clinging to chair legs and bicycle spokes. Dried seeds lodging under carefully placed rock collections. Dirt and dust that’ll take any surface it can.
Petals. Leaves. Butts —
An endless supply of — gag — fake flower pieces.
And thanks to the baby bunny who is perhaps a little shy about doing his duty in front of the other urban wild life —
Handfuls of teeny tiny pellets — dusty little powser colonies —
Achoo.
