Compass 24
Near reflection, far reflection, none – diffusion, magnets on the refrigerator. Two sandals in lock-step, one going in the opposite direction, its partner veering off to the left. The towel forms a snow-capped mountain over the chair back, a swimsuit flung atop the peak, another suit and a pair of underwear drying in the foothills. In the children’s garden, the sunflowers are now taller than the lupine going to seed.
Compass 25
Predominant colors edging the driveway are green, a half dozen variations of it, dull cement gray pushing them back. It makes more sense today than at any one time in the last year, floor swept. Mom’s bike rarely used, tires out of air; daughter’s bike, training wheels outgrown, scorned. No one to explain the garage window’s half-inch screen, evening sun rushing through.
Compass 26
His bike didn’t jump, jump rope entangled in the rear wheel. Bent screw, twisted plastic bag, a rubber band with its shape but not immediate purpose. The clock’s stopped: 3:10:46. If the step ladder’s upside down, what’s the orientation of the spider web?
Compass 27
Green shade, brick-red shade, no shade. The roof bends the shadow, scraping it against shingles. The conversation’s too far away to be overheard, but one man holds one point in hand over his head and another below his waist. She films her husband chasing their daughter, desperate to keep them within the frame.
Compass 28
Infield raked smooth, baselines chalked, the right field foul pole 276 feet away. He’s not alone, writing, and he’s not alone lying on his back, his companion an absolutely cloudless sky. The elm makes denser shade than the maple. Crows bickering over something in the outfield grass, picking at it, squawking.
Compass 29
Pines stop their march up the north slope here, but a few spot the south. Below the butte, winter wheat nudges toward brown. At the top of its aerial spiral, lofted by an updraft, the hawk aims then shoots toward the ground. Balsam root, flowers long since flown, dries out in the dust.
Compass 30
Ponderosa, lower limbs bare, broken off, hangs on to its thinning crown. He swings furiously, singing loudly, “He was born in a bin, he lost a quaffle in, that’s why Weasley’s our King.” Two ground squirrels, swelling with courage or hope or greed, skitter toward the bench. Following the hill’s contour, falling, folding, springing up, the wooden fence looks as if it grew there.
Compass 31
He doesn’t want to spin around, to take that direction. That way leads to a wooden wall, hard enough, if he hit it head on, to take his energy away. Single strand of spider web, one end unanchored, floats in a breeze. Sun falling, playing, throws long shadows across the deck.
Compass 32
Burning blue wall, in mid-July, shrivels dianthus, wilts daisies. Where the day begins, doubt ebbs or flows. Distance tints the spruce, more gray than green the farther away from the observer. Bell, birdseed, rain gutter, lilac, infinity.
Compass 33
“Angel quilt photo is here!!!” One second exposure stretches him as he strolls into “The Best Ice Cream” shop. Not going to catch many stars with the telescope inside, pointed down at the wall, but who can tell? Heron Blues, framed, street wet with rain, topless woman staring out a third story window.
Compass 34
He sees a forest where no forest grows. Turning the World Inside Out. His vision leans toward the cool, dimly-lit wall, away from the shelves of books. Where the white wall begins, cleansed, his universe begins.
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