6/5: L. tells me that, when G. got sick in the night, the first thing she thought when she went in his room and smelled that smell was, 'Demons.'
6/6: The cottonwood trees are so heavy in some places, they look a little obscene. Like they are shedding. Or wearing boas. No longer the dainty puffs floating through the air; now the stuff falls in clumps. The trees, embarrassed as adolescents.
6/7: The weeds have taken over.
6/8: I live in the wrong part of town.
6/9: G. watches Barney while I read portfolios. I turn the volume way down. He turns it back up.
6/10: The plastic pig, on her side, submerged in rainwater.
6/11: When I return to the interurban rotary trailhead, one other car is parked in the lot. An older man sits inside, highlighting a book. His back seat is filled with cardboard boxes.
6/12: There are bees in my chimney, and the sound, filtered down, is ghostly.
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