Coffee at 9:30 p.m. at the Java House. Q St. between 16th and 17th NW. We dream in a humid night, warm like a blanket, the people walking by with headphones or running shirtless. Car-horn squonk reminds me of Ornette Coleman. Piggybacking on unknown Internet connection “lyrical.” The problem with the Web is that form and function don’t jive for me. How to resolve? I’ve had ideas, never gotten around to them. Man next to me regards weathered paperback with skepticism, is it doing the trick? Next day he puts on slippers and develops a new scheme. How to make money without really trying. Meanwhile hair thins and bones creak.
I’ve settled into a rhythm. Enough money in the bank account right now that I don’t have to worry though I probably should. I would not mind a lit cigarette in my hand — earlier at the bus shelter a man sat next to me and exhaled cigarette smoke and I liked the smell. A woman standing nearby in a white shirt looked back possibly with displeasure or disgust. The girl in front of me wearing Chucks as well fidgets with her chignon. Next to her a guy thumbs a device and wears a wild yarmulke, not something you usually see. Most yarmulkes are unassuming and conservative. She stands and looks around and puts the book in a totebag with insignia that to me are cryptic. Mr. Mxlpytk! Now a kid walks by making noises that sound both like quacks but also unlike those made by any actual bird.
Last night Louisa and I set out to my garden plot, me on foot, her on her new bike for keeping at my place. She had ridden ahead of me across the low concrete bridge that crosses Four Mile Run. As I approached the bridge I noticed two men standing on the path and looking out into the creek. I wondered what they were studying. It took me a while to see it, but there it was: a large bird squatting upright, standing stock-still, looking straight ahead. One of the men asked me what it was, and I had to admit I had no idea. But later, as Louisa and I ate whole-wheat spaghetti with a sauce that included basil I clipped from the garden on that visit, I thumbed through a field guide to birds. Louisa looked with me and said she spotted the bird we saw. I doubted her at first, but as it turned out, I think she was right: it was a black-capped night heron. What a cool name.
The wind kicks up. Could it be about to rain?