A day or two ago, I woke up with a start and sat straight up, my heart pounding in the darkness. Hanging from the ceiling were streamers and spiders, a swinging baby, an elephant's trunk. A door banged before I knew it was a dream and everything receded, the ceiling returned to a pale, cracked blue and I lay back down and closed my eyes.
This morning, I stood at my back door and looked at the silk floss tree flowers that litter the grass, their decaying pink melting into green. A bird flew by as if I were expecting it, a bird of prey lighting on the top of the trampoline, its yellow legs. I held my breath and got my phone to snap his picture, a buzz-saw in the background startled both of us in its insistence to cut through the silence, and he flew away.
I read today about tiny cherry tomatoes lined up in a serving dish, sitting in gin. Roll the tomatoes in the gin. Pick them up with a toothpick and roll them in sea salt. Drink a martini.