It was cold at night, but clear mornings would bring sunshine and heat, driving him out of the building. Heat and hunger: the persistent search for food goaded him out into the open as relentlessly as the burning metal walls.

Approaching the doorway was the worst part of his day. The transition from safe, inky shadows to the harsh brightness brought fear and temporary blindness. Unable to see danger, his ears sharpened as he listened for the sounds of threat. Smells were useless here. Surrounded by rusted metal, everything had the ferrous odor of fear. He shuffled closer to the doorway, eyes adjusting for what seemed like an eternity. A hot breeze blew, moving shapes in the distance, causing him to startle at first, then relax. No threat, just junk blowing around.

He moved outside in erratic bursts, pausing to assess his surroundings and moving on. At the edge of the road, the strangers sometimes left things. He continued to scan the horizon, because other strangers were not so kind.

Success. One of the strangers had left something – a brightly colored paper bag, the remains of a meal. It would be enough. He ripped into the bag and managed a few bites before he felt the eyes on him. Looking sideways, mid-bite, he saw the predatory gaze. Long, bounding strides took him from his find, back towards the relative safety of the building.

A sudden jerk, and he was stopped, a tearing pain and he was free again, racing even faster towards the dark opening. Reaching it, he swung himself up and climbed until he could reach a perch over the doorway, watching it nervously. The gray fur over his heaving ribs bristled as he cleaned his bloodied tail, looking for danger’s return. He would go out again later. He would have to. But for now, the dark was better.

Frére a demandé
Haiku écrit en Français.
Je pense qu'il est fou.

The birds always came first. Crowding together, they chattered and complained in the haze of awakening. "Too early," said one. "Always too early," said another.

"Tomorrow will be better," remarked an old bird. "The warm - it comes and goes for a bit, but eventually it stays." The cheep of complaint stilled suddenly, a hushing of ruffling feathers marking respect for experience. Drowsiness returned as the birds' complaint built again.

Daffodils and their gaudy displays would come next, both flamboyant and innocent. So many years of that bright yellow. There were so many by now, memories of those years, like traffic lights - yellow on/off. On/off. So many years.

Finally, real change would come. Sensation would expand downward, a warming breeze would bring full awareness. Coming completely awake, green would show and strive towards the sun.

"Could I use your phone to call Jeremy?" Rachel asked. "He's likely to forget that I'm here and that he's supposed to keep Caleb an extra night." I mentally choked on the diatribe that sprang to the back of my throat full blown. He left three years ago and you're still taking care of him! Don't encourage him to depend on you any more! I waved her to the phone, understanding that Caleb's welfare was more important than feminist rhetoric. That didn't make it easy to see someone who had been laughing and vibrant mere moments before suddenly look so pinched and anxious.

"Hello, Jeremy?" Suddenly, Rachel's voice was tentative. I paused on my way out to the deck to check the grill. Damn, damn, damn. I tried not to listen as she continued to speak in that suddenly fragile tone. "You remember you're keeping Caleb an extra day, don't you? Yeah, I'm in Washington with Alice."

"Hi, Jeremy," I said out loud, trying for normal. "Waste of skin," I muttered softly.

She was hunched over with the phone, an arm curled around her middle as she continued. "Yeah. No, tomorrow afternoon. Yes, I can get him after school. No, don't remind him that I'm not there - just tell him I love him when you tuck him in." Low tones, almost inaudible. I knew she wasn't speaking that way so that I wouldn't listen. I was surprised that Jeremy could hear her at all. It didn't matter. He probably wasn't listening.

"Hey!"

"What?"

"No fair - it's my turn."

"But you said you liked this photo."

"Yeah, but you're making me look like a slacker - I only have one 'litera' post, and here you are with three 'graphicas.'"

"Well - get on it then."

As a girl, she had anticipated the rare trips to the city. New school clothes, the windows of the big department store festive and rich at Christmas, the drawn-out savoring of a sweet treat before the long ride home: the excitement leading up to these trips had sent her careening about the house until stern parental voices contained her exuberance.

When she was a young woman, the promise of a date saw her carefully choosing clothes, applying lipstick, and arranging her hair. She had savored the picture of her slim form in a light summer dress, matching shoes and handbag, gloves, and a hat on the arm of that young man who had grown so handsome.

As she had grown older, looking forward to things had not been an unmixed delight. As a young wife, she had sat for what seemed like hours with a hand on her belly. Wondering at the power that brought movement under that formerly still surface, wanting to see those feet that kicked, fearing pain.

Young motherhood left little time for anticipation. The children, their needs, their schemes, and their creations, they all happened now. There was little time for fearing the future – even less for happy musing.

As the children grew up, her mind turned less and less often to thoughts of her own future pleasures. A husband’s promotion, a daughter’s dance, a son’s Air Force wings – these were the possibilities that consumed her thoughts. It now seems that things moved so quickly after that. Worry and fear and joy jumbled together as she awaited the son’s return from war, the daughter’s marriage, the grandchildren. Looking back, all of those events seemed to have happened on the same day.

Now, there was more behind her than in front of her. She had many memories and a few things yet to look forward to. Today she had dressed with the care of a girl: a light summer dress, matching shoes and handbag, gloves, and a hat. She smiled and accepted the proffered arm of that man who had grown so handsome.

It had started innocently enough, the four of us sitting on the library lawn, a golden twilight evening of our seventeenth year, talking and laughing. Somebody made a joke. Someone else threw a handful of red and yellow leaves, teasing. A third escalated hostilities with a double handful. Somebody got up, and suddenly the air was full of adolescent autumn: swirling leaves, the sound of thudding feet and shouts of delight or dismay. Teams of two would form and just as easily be sundered as those momentary alliances were treacherously broken. The shrieks and howls as allegiances shifted proved that each was on their own.

There was a maniacal gleam in Nick's eyes as he carried me to a leaf pile and dumped me in. Mary (an ally for the moment) rescued me from being stuffed like a scarecrow by grabbing Nick's abandoned sweater and flinging it high. As he tried to reclaim it from the tree where Mary had thrown it, she and I converged on Rob, our fingers digging into his ribs until his long, lanky frame crashed to the ground, howling with rage and helpless laughter. Mary stole his shoe and tossed it to me. For a few moments, there was a frantic game, while Rob dashed from Mary to me and we threw our prize, stuffing it with leaves at every opportunity.

Finally, there was a heady moment of power as I stood with the shoe held inside the overnight book drop, watching the confident disbelief in Rob's face as he approached turn to dreadful certainty as he stopped. I would drop the shoe, and he would have to explain to the unamused librarians that it was just a game and that it wasn't his fault- if he had his way, the whole incident would never have happened, and yes he was very, very sorry.

"What will you give me to get it back?"

Stillness, a small shift, a flicker of movement, stillness again. A stirring like a dancer waiting for a cue. Dry, fragile surfaces whispering as they brush against one another, a hushed expectancy.

Indecision freights movement, makes each hesitant motion more important than the most focused action. An eyelid flickers, a glance slides through the blue into the light.

A sudden darting, swift and direct. Subtle undulations follow the surge, dissipating into stillness.