This morning a cold fog lay over town. Steller’s jays flew into it, disappeared in blue blur.
Bradford pear leaves scattered over sidewalk and curb. They are crimson now, and vermilion, and chocolate. The fall has been an odd one. The leaves on my apple never dropped. New ones are already growing. This is the year when the apple tree was evergreen.
Four California gulls rode the peak of a roof along Tennent Avenue. They waited for Zeke to pass. A stray tomcat bumped my leg, looked curiously at the dog two houses back. Did he need to run? He threaded himself through my ankles, then walked reluctantly away.
The magazine is nearly done, again. The deadline crush has become routine. One five-page article we were planning to run vaporized last week. Ten years ago I would have pulled out my hair. Last week I made a phone call and had a replacement the next day. What’s the worst that could happen? I could lose my job.
Last week the psychiatrist asked me if I ever experienced feelings of hopelessness. I told him I was an environmental journalist. He nodded and made a mark on his checklist.
I walked down to the creek tonight. Zeke pulled eagerly on the leash, at least on the way downhill. A sweet pall hung in the air, woodsmoke and something cloying, like corn stalks. For a moment, I smelled burning Joshua trees. For a moment, I was at campfire on Cima Dome, putting a hand-length section of Joshua tree intto the fire, then drawing it out again to sniff its copal smoke.
