The Whale Song of Yellow Trucks

The mosquitoes are already busy this morning in the miniature aviary beneath the orange and the tangerine trees at my door. Opening the door: it is like breathing from a warm wet rag. Lawnmower motor sounds filling the living room. Meditation: swatting arms and ankles. Garbage truck soot, rattle, crunch, 8 A.M. song. Monday. The neighbor's father out walking the dogs. Why all this on a Sunday. It is Monday. It is easy to lose track of days. We will convert each jarring noise into a resonance of natural song. Each unwanted odor or color, each needle pressed to the skin to steal blood. Or, rather, we will convert ourselves to them. The yellow garbage truck swims off the shore of our block. It can be heard for miles in the water of the air.