There is so much happening in the skyit's all we can do to keep ourselves distracted.

The monsoons roll in the late summer. We set the mowers against the grass, they graze like domesticated helicopters. Their growl fills up the neighborhood.

Hawks fly down from the foothills bending the wind with their wide arms. They watch for mice running from the mowers' whirling mouths.

The clear sky hemorrhages a beautiful white cancer, the sun becomes more beautiful in its gradual eclipse because we notice only transitions and invent things like boredom to camouflage our moments.

Everything smells of clean electric sex. The wind has distance on its breath. The afternoon begins to explode.

A season like this makes me wonder how we ever managed to shove time into clocks and watches, keeping time like a tiger on a leash, oblivious to its obvious rebellion.

Sooner doesn't always come before later. Now is never stuck in the middle, monsooner or later it will all come down.

The dirt roads will arrive eventually. Today they're running late.

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