A gaggle of harrumphs from the soapbox cleared the way. Pince nez glasses dangling over his vest pocket. Some would have likened it to the parting of the red sea.  Others imagined an audience of termites, having finished a perilous journey to assemble at the platform. And those arriving from the valley of delights, attracted by the place, shared a tempering of thoughts, amplifying every word.

“It will rain tomorrow.”

A drop fell.

“Not today.”

Another drop. The concentration was increasing.

“Nor the day after tomorrow.”

Black clouds appeared suddenly. Lightning and thunder. Then heavy rain.

“Everything will be normal again, except for this whiplash.”

Neighborhood streets overflowed.

“The jet stream has just taken a southward dip.”

Water getting almost to the tops of fire hydrants.

“A hurricane forming in the Caribbean will veer away.”

Fire hydrants no longer visible.

“It ought to blow over in a day or two.'

Stalled clouds. Continuous rain.

“Stay tuned for further updates . . .”

\\_0_//



Attacking his problem, the lithology of literature in the stone age, Emerson opined:

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by statesmen and philosophers and divines.”

The way he speaks is mellifluous, couching a disagreement in disarming language.

There is nothing so clever as a plain statement of fact. It precludes argument. A fact is as stubborn as a stubbed toe. I wish I hadn't said this.

One might visit an orchard or a store to get an apple, and come back with a peach. There is a complication. Both fruits are spheres, and that is a fact. Something philosophical is in this observation, on this we might agree. Or shrug it off. It makes no difference. Preferable perhaps would be dealing with a genie who has escaped from her bottle. Thus we find facts as citadels in lands of their origins, sovereign over all they survey. Each is a simple presentation, and yet . . .

\\_0_//

.

A path winds around the corner of the house, ending by the patio where I sit in the afternoon. The concrete pavers are mostly grey, some tinted pale red. In no particular sequence. One of the grey sort is just to my right and distinguished by the imprint of a yellow paint lid, from when the house got sprayed.

Back several feet towards the fence is our bird feeder, red geraniums blooming vigorously beneath. This is where Twinkie lurks, despite my telling her the birds are friends, mine at least. But she has her instinct to maintain.

Robin is landing on the fence, getting some walnut bits, just beyond reach. So far Twinkie hasn't caught robin, or the Junco kids, or a dove. The best laid plans of birds and cats make a checkered game.

I could grind the yellow blotch off, using a concrete brick. With the passing of a few seasons, it would fade. But it seems now the paver belongs the way it is.