Photo by Netha Hussain
Here’s what gets noticed when a person’s isn’t trying to figure out how to get an imaginary person into and out of a rental car at a diner along the highway in the Coast Range of western Oregon:
One of the yellow tulips in the blue porcelain vase droops.
The noise of the dehumidifer running in the basement, the no-frost freezer running up here.
A cat on an ottoman on a floor that isn’t level so that it rocks on the hardwood every time he shifts his weight to clean himself, or find a better position for more sleep.
A parade of water droplets along the branch of the red maple in the yard next door. I only noticed this past few days they seem to stay like that rather than falling. Is it only a matter of time, until the next wind?
Sound of garbage trucks out on the street, recycling trucks, stopping with a brake squeak to pick up paper, cans, glass bottles. Train horns, more motors, more brakes.
A woman in a yellow puffy jacket that’s tight at her waist and big sunglasses even though there’s no sun walks by with a black Lab, en route to Alberta Park where there’s an off-leash area.
The orange fire hydrant on the corner and the way it stands out, vivid color alongside the green, green grass.