2004-01-04 - 10:48 p.m.
"pinwheel, pinwheel spinning around..."
During one of the last mowings a pinwheel was blown in front of my porch. A few more inches it would have been on the patio slab itself. There it lay, neglected and plastic, bright primary colors yelling for attention. I should have gone outside, picked it up, and thrown it away. Instead, I chose to leave it. The air was decisively winterish that morning and I was certain the plastic would soon be covered by snow, unseen until it emerged next Spring as the grass blades stretched out of their seeds.
I left it to watch the destruction or preservation, depending upon the winter. Finicky Winter. By now my experiment has been trampled—and, I suspect, urinated upon (by some dog)—bleached by the sun, and strew to the now (finally) descending snowflakes.
This was not the story I was expecting.
