At the height of our two-day gale, from the shelter of my third-story condo, I saw a man on a bicycle inching his way to the dumpster. His bike was buried under black garbage bags full of cans and bottles all lashed tight to the top and sides of his rear carrier by lengths of bungee cord and twine. He worked his way into the gusts standing at the top of each half revolution letting the weight of his body bear down on the pedals—moving his barge toward the leeward side of the dumpster. This astonished me.
I crave the sun’s yellow, not the blight-white of a dog-day or the pale yellow of a high-cloud shroud, but the slow brilliant yellow that seeps up over cheek bones and under hat brims and lights up a face.