Brooklyn, August 21, 1983

Trees droop, weighed down by teardrop-shaped bunches of triangulated, spiky yellow seeds. The visible world is a lemon-lime dream of golden summer. 

Pods rest on their lined two-pronged stem of green leaf, idly drifting on the wind as birds perform a pointillistic tribute to this season, on the ebbing side of life. 

Voices in varying degrees of pitch and timbre lend murmurings. 

The sound canopy is crammed with percussion coming from the unseen. Clicks, clacks, p-p-p-puhs, ticks, and buzzes accompany dry locusts’ scales, popping as they run up and down their summer scales. Sirens. Horses. Dogs. Crickets. Sounds of love interspersed with sounds of rage. Silverware clinking, smells of dinner; laughter; a baseball game in progress, a radio blaring. 

It is night now. Windows glow with the cool blue of a TV; street lights shine in coral brightness. A hydrant has been left running and a stream of coolness flows, three inches deep, along the gutter. Wheels of cars become small dams facing the flow and reducing it into tiny swirls and smooth larger areas of wetness that look black against the silver of the pavement. 

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