by Josh Huber
This morning a possible malignancy, so, instead of the daily coffee, my mug’s packed with pomegranate seeds freshly unhusked floating in chilled soda water. Why not? I’m an adult: I can make the drinks I really want. And I want something bright and sweet and tart, that pops. I want floating gems in a bubble bath.
I sip and look about.
The world is thick with squirrels and crackling leaves. The sun is all glory glory hallelujah pouring from pail blue down and cascading through bared branches in a foam of gold light. The crushed opossum at the road’s center is stuck balletic in its still smear.
There’s something in the muddy trash strewn chuckling of this stream. Something in my loafered feet dully clacking concrete. Something in the power plants churn turning rot and waste to quickened fire on command. Something in that drink that splashes from my cup onto my slacks at the lap creating a dark face for a melting cat.
It could be we are all praying, each after our own silly and distinct fashion. For prosperity, love, peace, victory, an end to struggle, a little longer. Praying into the inevitable.
In the meantime, leaves are pirouetting down as if choreographed by the wind. A far up plane cheats time and space, its many eyes peering ahead or out or down or in. A siren strikes up its banshee band. Humming drifts off a building top. Tires and engines. A squealing stop.
I kick a rock and sip and bite with a rhythmic crunch.
Whatever else, there’s music in all this.