There's nothing like party leftovers: 2/3 of a cake, and piles of multicolor disks of confetti shifting in the heat vents of the terrarium of my apartment like little Saharan sand dunes. Like a 1930s Dust Bowl portrait of a Dust Bowl woman, staring off into the camera; out of the frame, on my hip a laundry basket, full of unmatched socks while elsewhere a plane takes off for a southern port city of such superb international awesomeness, that in my brown study, I cannot imagine lush foliage or the souk scent of coconut and ambergris.
The Mid-Atlantic in January. Like the Inuit have words for snow, there are more than 50 shades of gray, as we used to say in Pittsburgh, is it Pittsburgh gray? Grit. Dove. Duck ass.
When my husband's Costa Rican grandmother came to visit years ago, she (who had never been out of her green universe, or seen the winter spindle of a anything deciduous) asked, "What's wrong with your trees?"