The chill wind of spring tousles my hair. Birds chirping against the sunset. Hearing the rustle of willow leaves with closed eyes. The gentle pricking of zazen below the waist. A finch perched on a bare switch; it flies away as I turn my head to admire it. The cold breeze persists into the afternoon. Finding a decaying elementary school. Locked doors everywhere. A sickly sweet smell clutches at the tinted and shuttered windows. The chipped and wind-worn concrete of obsolete architecture. Wooden beams rotting from the top down from hundreds of acidic California rains. Paint sloughing off in thick, curling chips of sullied white. A field of dead grass. A courtyard of discarded lunch pails and sweatshirts. Hidden in plain sight, a handful of mostly-faded chalk pictures. Once broken into exuberant rainbow shards. Now a sun-bleached memento of vague, pastel memories.

7:03 p.m. - 2020-03-27