214. A Hint of Rain Clouds

The air grows heavy, an almost damp weight
pulling me down, making me desperate,
homesick,
for a little bit of rain from the thick clouds.
They put a lid on the usually barren skyscape,
adding a measurable distance of air
from me to the gray whisps
that always make me feel grounded,
too small for such a big space.
But I never notice the gap
until the clouds close over my head,
trapping me.

213. The Escape

The goanna freezes with one leg
up on the short wall's stonework,
its front claws clutching the top
as we pull into the parking space.

It still does not move as we exit
the car and watch it watch us,
a silent fascination
that draws us close
even as we dare not move in.

It does not move, half ascending
as though we stopped its prison escape.
Eventually, we gather the bags
and slam the car doors closed.
As we shuffle away through the dirt,
I glance back to find it still in place,
as though it has a higher opinion
for its camouflaged scales.

I return a moment later,
just wanting to watch,
to take in the shape, the colors,
the angles and lines,
but all I see is the end of the tail
disappearing beneath the building.

212. The Spider's Lament

The spider's egg sack dangles from the broken
side view mirror; it flaps as we drive,
hanging on by the thinnest threads
and I don't know if I want it to fall
or not.

I don't like looking at it, remembering the spiders
that use to roam freely inside the car,
but I imagine it breaking loose,
breaking against the pavement
or remaining intact until it splatters against a tire.

Then I see the spider, clinging to the edge
of the mirror, seeming to watch as its white ball
of fluff and offspring
blows like a streamer in a hurricane.

I don't want it to fall.
I don't think it will fall.

I look away for a moment,
and when I look again, it's gone,
leaving only the spider that just lost everything
in a gust of sir.

211. Spring Fever

The sun beats down on us
for more hours nowadays,
making the air conditioners
churn and hum with energy.
The cold water tap delivers
tepid water in the afternoon,
providing no respite
from the encroaching summer,
creeping ever closer,
silent
but noticeably present.

210. Portuguese Lessons

I struggle to wrangle
my tongue and mouth
into foreign shapes
squeezing out awkward sounds
like I'm forcing broccoli
through a garlic press.

I have to stop sometimes,
when my laughter overwhelms me.
And you laugh along,
never laughing at me.

209. Lost in the Tasks

The words become lost,
somewhere in the back of my mind,
under the solid wood desk
in a cabin in a snow storm
as I fall into spreadsheets,
calculations,
plans and reminders,
appointments
as I lose myself,
my thoughts
until I look up from the jumble
of wires under mounds of papers
and realize how much time has passed,
how I don't need words for that.

208. The Headache

It starts slowly,
the pain at the base of my skull,
cradling it gently,
making it difficult to move,
but it moves,
sliding along my scalp
to curl around my temple,
the edge of my eye socket
and it stays,
throbbing gently
to remind me
to appreciate days
without pain.

207. Smokescreen

The sky's shrouded like someone's pulled gray tulle over it all,
and the edges blur into the horizon, a haze I first think is fog,
but then I realize it can only be smoke from a nearby bush fire
left to burn itself out when the dry land is not enough for it either.

206. Fly Season

The flies have returned,
so desperate for water
the crawl to my eyes.

205. The Art of Tumbling

Through the red dust on the front windshield,
we see the bush-- a dried sphere of branches
as wide as the station wagon-- as it bounds
and rolls across the road in front of us.

We laugh in bewilderment,
pointing,
staring at the small roots
that the wind pull free from the dry land.

The tumbleweed rolls into the mud flats
where the tide rises when its at its highest
for the month and continues onward,
occasionally dipping out of sight
but popping back up seconds later,
still full of momentum
with nothing to stop it
as it plows on toward the ocean
and beyond our sight.

204. The Red Flowers

The flowers fall to the ground
like fat red raindrops on the sidewalk
until our boots grind the soft petals
into smudges the pavement

or the sun dries them into purple husks,
misshapen and wrinkled without the tree
to provide protection
or nutrients
or just a place to stay in the sky
with the leaves and the black birds.

Instead, they return to the dirt,
making friends with the rocks and ants.

203. A Touch of Heat

The sun touches my skin,
tickles on the soft hairs
of my arm, pricking with heat
almost like excitement
but it's too hot to be excited.

202. Barbecue Night

Under the porch lights,
the dialogue grows and aches;
music croons softly.

201. Glimpses and Fragments

Her name is written in the same stark
black letters on white as a newspaper obituary,
my finger following the loops and angles
with a familiarity that doesn't extend to her face.
I search my memory for a glimpse, a fragment
of this woman I should've known,
I must've known,
but the picture's distorted and slipping faster
like sand through my fingers
until the flash of maybe short blond hair
is buried under the barrage of grief
that I already can't remember her face
because I didn't even know her,
and that makes it all the sadder.

200. Nearing Dusk

As the sun turns pink,
lowering toward the hills,
the wind continues to blow
a surprisingly cool breeze,
like the rush of sharp air
leaving the refrigerator,
but the sidewalk still warms
my bare soles with each step
forward.

199. Sun-kissed

The sunshine rouges
both of my cheeks and my nose;
UV makes me glow.

198. White Hot Sand

The hot sand nips at my toes and heels,
burns up through the soles of my feet,
makes me remember the time as a child
the pavement turned my soles to blisters,
large, bulbous, and so overwhelmingly painful
that my body still remembers the unceasing agony
a dozen years later when the sand heats my feet.

197. Unbroken

Among the gravel
lies a whole, empty snail shell:
Fibonacci's swirl.

196. No Goal in Sight

The ants roam my desk,
dozens run for hours, days,
no aim or endpoint.

195. Patriotic Duty

As I sit on the linoleum floor

of my donga in the Outback,

the pen is unsteady in my hand

as I try to outline the faintest hint of an oval

and fill it in, solid and definitive,

to mark my choices for the U.S. election.

194. The Dust Storm

In the morning, the light spreads
diffused behind what seems like fog
but it's actually dust, earth in the air
blurring the outline of the town
and hiding the distant hills.

In the evening, the sun reappears
as a red outline, sharp and oversized
behind the desert sand in the sky.

193. The Cockroach

When I enter the bathroom,
still alert for any snakes hiding
in the area or under the bathroom,
a cockroach startles me.
I use the side of my boot to try
to persuade it to slip out the door,
but instead, it runs to the corner
where my boot cannot fit entirely,
so I leave it be.

Later, when I return once more,
it lies prone in front of the door,
its thin legs turned up to the ceiling
and all I can think is
I hope that wasn't me.

192. Palm Fronds Gossip

The dry leaves drop to the sidewalk
curled at the edges like an old newspaper
and just as frail beneath my boots.
The pond fronds rattle in the mild wind
that does nothing to cool the burn of the sun
as it beats down the barren red earth.
The weeds rub together, sharing hoarse
laments that the days are growing rougher
and hopes that the rains will finally return
in a few months to sustain the next generation
of flowers and leaves, animals and workers.

191. Headaches

The ache settles into the tender spot

just outside of my eye socket,

not overwhelmingly painful

but it's enough to make me unsteady,

unsure if my stomach and brain

are conspiring against me

to cut short my plans for a nice dinner.

You look concerned for something

you cannot fix, like a broken pump

or a faulty string of coding,

but you only ask one time

if there's anything you can do.

I shake my head, mostly silent,

but I'll find the words to explain

as soon as my world stops roiling

in the choppy sea after a storm

190. A Night at the Movies

The sky is still darkening,
the edge of pink fading out of existence,
when the lights at the amphitheater
shut off for the film to start on the screen.
No fireflies roam the skies here
like they do back home,
their lights flickering softly.
Instead, the flying foxes swoop
down in front of the movie
and hundreds of stars still shine,
despite the projector and the projection.

189. The Answers

Sometimes I think
if I stare out at cloudless sky long enough
and let the wind make waves in my hair
the trees will whisper their wisdom:
why the miner bird only has one working leg,
where the goanna goes when he's gone,
and all the little questions I'm overlooking,
because I haven't stopped to look close enough.

188. The Process of Sleep

First the sounds sharpen,
each word taking on the staccato
of a hammer on a nail.

Then I hear my heartbeat
seeming too fast and heavy
as it explores my body.

But it slows, eventually,
tumbling down into an easy rhythm
that drags my eyes closed.

Between one breath and the next,
the words slip away into a nest,
a comfortable cloud in which I sleep.

187. When the Days Grow Hot

The heat sneaks up on me
when I'm not looking at it,
its touch buried beneath the wind
until the moment,
the one where I realize it's too late
to stop the sun from painting
my skin in a block of red dye.

186. Spring Cleaning

The vacuum sparks and roars,
the hose immediately attaching to the mattress.
I jerk it free a manage a cursory sweep of the floor
but it sticks to the chair,
then the floor itself.
I trace the strip of black plastic
pretending to be crown molding,
but the cobwebs dangle off the tube
as if there's not enough suction
for something so thin and delicate.

185. Under the Coral Sun

Six months had passed
since I last tread this path in the daylight,
the time when the shadows stretch long
and everything takes on a coral tone
that makes me hair look auburn, rosy.

The birds gather the same way
they did in the darkness just before dawn,
their small white bodies settled in the dirt
but tense, wary of my presence.

The path is more vibrant,
the water shines brighter
and I can better see the crab
scurrying around the small rocks.

My feet know this path,
but there is enough newness
to carry me forward
until the year cycles around
and I trod in the darkness
once more.

184. On the Doormat

The movement to my right
catches my attention
and I twist around my spine
to look at the butcherbird
standing on the straw doormat
just outside the frame.
It cocks its head to study me
but it doesn't venture closer
while I'm looking at it.
Instead, it waits, watches me
with curiosity but no fear
until I break our moment
and it hops inside the room.