Slow Sunday Scenes, 8 March

Somewhere nearby someone is running a vacuum cleaner, getting ready to open shop, or maybe they are already open and just now cleaning up. I follow the sound from one aisle to the next. It is just one more sound to add to the collection. Sunday morning, the day of the time change; not officially Spring, but it might as well be. It is warm sitting here. No, check that, it is hot. Give it another fifteen minutes though and the sun will have traversed far enough across its arc that a newly leafed branch of this jacaranda will muffle its heated fury. The small talk from the breakfast crowd across the street at Bardot's is incessant, steady until until a more hearty chord is struck, a more celebratory rousing, a birthday i presume. An indigo butterfly floats by just beyond the reach of the Ibis, leaning against the same jacaranda tree. It, the indigo butterfly, seems to be searching for the perfect cluster of yellow lantana on which to rest. The stream of usual people flows past too. Not that they are the same, though some may be, but their mission is the same this Sunday as it was last Sunday, and each similar one before.  Joining up with family, or friends for breakfast, or coffee. They go to, or come from the farmers' market, bags filled with produce and such, cut flowers always poking out from above. People sit further along the bench, backs against the wall where there is shade already. Their conversations are not quiet, no pretense to eavesdrop is necessary - she's a lesbian. They're all lesbians, all those girls on the --- team are. Don't ask me, i don't know, i'm just sitting here watching, and listening to the morning, collecting sounds and sights.

Already there have been more people on bikes riding along in front of me than i would normally expect. I recognize some, know others, but most are strangers. And why shouldn't there be this many, it's not officially Spring, but it might as well be. It is not hard to guess their purpose; some are out on their Sunday spin, collecting miles, others lock up and stride in to the market street, others dismount at the barricades before pushing their ride beside them to each of the vendors' stalls, searching for just the right one to land in. Everyone has their own way. Some can't quite leave before first spotting someone to engage in conversation, little kiddos with dinosaur helmets, or no, maybe that one is a shark, waiting patiently. The weekly surveyors are out collecting signatures. I sometimes wonder if the petitions are the same each week; probably not, but they never seem to run out of willing signers. A rider rolls up - i think he wanted to take a seat at the other end of the bench, but was beaten to the spot by a couple shoppers; i don't think they noticed, but i did. Why did they paint over the mural of sliced watermelon and citrus on the wall against which our little collection of bench sitters rests? Maybe they were too colorful. The chitalpas are blooming pink against the blue sky, but i don't think i am the only one who notices that, and i don't think anyone has a problem with that color. A couple folks out today, bending the definition of gender - that was some outlandishly colorful makeup by the way - but hey, to each their own, live and let live, and all that; it is not officially Spring, but it might as well be.

every windstorm, i expect a tree to fall, like this one blocking the way through the Pomona College Farm

every windstorm i expect this old backboard and goal to fall, but every windstorm it never does