haiku triptych

trembling cornflower
July's Saturday breeze blows
murmuring waterfall

bellowing bullfrog
water skimmers step-dancing
pond ripples echo

black wings on water
meandering reflection
I look up -- empty!

summer urban haiku redux again

skydown waterfall

sidewalk rippling creek morning

clear -- wet slap of tires

summer urban haiku redux

swaying redbud branch

heart-shaped greenery shading

busy spider work

summer urban haiku

cumulonimbus

murmuring blue moodily

distant and darker

nocturnal chronognosia

I wake up nightly to perform human-wastewater-relief duties (HWRD). (With that acronym, you can tell I do a lot of technical editing in the environmental field.) Typically two to three times per night. Could be more, could be less. Rare not to obey nature's mandates at least once nightly. But here's the strange thing. I walk into the bathroom with a guess in my head as to what time it is. Then I look up at the clock. (If I am extremely tired or have retired very late, I just don't look at the clock. It would freak me out too much to see how little I have slept.) Get this: invariably my guess of the time is accurate to within a few minutes! Oh, sometimes I'm off, maybe even by as much as an hour, but that's rare.

I have termed this phenomenon nocturnal chronognosia.

(Do I have the same uncanny ability during the day? Do I have diurnal chronognosia? I'd have to forgo the wearing or consulting of wristwatches, etc. to find out. Somehow diurnal chronognosia just does not seem as interesting.)

Hmmmmmmmmmmm.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Happy Birthday, Ringo Starr

When you're 64 + 6.

Happy 70th.

Peace and love and gratitude.

detour de la tour

To the left off West Fayette Street, just past Hank's auto repair, is a pathway through the railroad right of way, a clearing in the brushy overgrowth. I took it. Mid-day. Bright. A track of rusted rail, not rolled on in a long time. To the left a portion of track stopped by chain-link fence. Ain't no train comin' down that track. At the end of the line, a trompe l'oeil, a trick of the eye, the green domes of Saint John's Ukrainian Catholic Church, like some iconic Oz endpoint, omega. Then the back walls of an old warehouse or factory festooned with a feast of colorful and raging and jubilant graffiti. A flatbed railcar, still, sitting in the sidetrack, literally sidetracked. How does one lose track of such a huge piece of metal, now museumed? Then unrusted and silvery tracks. Cross them. No rumbles. Strange sight lines of the city of Syracuse to the right and the neighborhood of Tipperary Hill to the left. A quiet air of menace and danger and serenity and secrecy. I head left, toward Erie Boulevard West, above and coming toward South Geddes. The sounds of traffic. The pathway from West Fayette and Geddes blocked by concrete boulders the authorities have placed to stop folks like me and the kids going to and from Fowler. A black squirrel, or is it a rat, can rats be black?, possibly pauses briefly to scout me and then languidly scurries over the barricade (if scurrying can be slowed to a languid pace). A small clearing to the left, toward civilization, toward the Hess station and Arby's and the intersection repeatedly overrun by those who ignore the red. The electric shock of seeing a fellow, possibly Latino, teens? twenties?, sitting near the rail, crouched, smoking a cigarette or a joint, like a Thirties hobo, looking sad or contemplative or merely safe, secure in a refuge above the fray.