Wendesday. Supetember 12

• The waves of tobacco and smoke scent coming off the teenager beside me on the bus. As she gets off, I notice a cigarette and lighter clenched in her hand.
• Two sharp-boned cats scrounging in the bushes, tearing open a bag full of old pasta and sauce.
• At dusk, the color of the laundry hanging on the line suddenly intensifies, turning a psychedelic pink and orange against the graying air. 

• Toddlers share the sight of their navels as a bonding ritual. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. 
• The sharp sliver of the new moon, hanging above the tree. Below it, barely seen, the evening star.