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Four big balloons are hanging on long ropes over Harmon's GM dealership in downtown Provo. Two of them, the green one and the yellow one, look like they're performing some slow dance together. They sway together gracefully, and then slowly apart, and then close together again until it looks like they are kissing. The green one is taller and I can almost see his tuxedoed arms circled around his yellow partner. They seem to be whispering quiet love notes to each other. Every once in a while, one of them is overcome and leans back to smile.
The pigeons gather on the edge of the roof of the Provo Marriott in large flocks. Every few seconds, another bird flutters up and perches in the crowd. Then, as if critical mass has been reached, all of them explode off the roof. They fly through a violent series of turns in tight formation almost as if they shared a mind. Their bellies and wings flash in unison. Then, abruptly, the formation expands and dissolves, and the birds gradually reconvene at another spot on the Marriott roof.
A big rain cloud is passing over Utah Lake to the west, and all of a sudden the sky is dark. I can see things blowing by in the wind. A large black beetle has come to rest outside my window, sitting with lethargic utility, twitching his antennae. Now he is crawling along in single-minded pursuit of whatever it is that beetles pursue. Now he is rearing back his head and casting his antennae toward the storm cloud. I wonder if he is surprised at the change of weather.
Posts: 5957 | Registered: Oct 2001
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I had to tell someone about the balloons and the birds. Every time I lift my head from the computer screen, there they are. Posts: 5957 | Registered: Oct 2001
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They took down the balloons because of the storm cloud, and the wind must have blown all the pigeons away. And the beetle crawled on down the side of the building.
Posts: 5957 | Registered: Oct 2001
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The beetle's back. He's taking things slow and easy. It's a sunny day and there aren't any surprises. The glass is warm and nothing feels better than to stop and soak it up. I wonder if he realizes he is visible through my window. I wonder if he ever thinks about what he must look like from underneath. If he ever looked down he might see his reflection. I wonder if he'd know what it was--and if he did know, would he care? Maybe being a beetle is a glorious and ecstatic thing, full of beauty, and I just can't imagine the marvels that are constantly unfolding before this six-legged little soul. Perhaps if he could conceive of my interest in the light he reflects, if such a trite thought could step onto the vast and wonderful stage of his experiences, he would feel a moment's passing pity for me before the joy of his being enveloped him again.
Posts: 5957 | Registered: Oct 2001
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