Rosedale

 

 

Hanging

out with me at the crossroads tonight are a toucan and his chums, the penguins. The toucan does not say too much, just enough. The penguins do not say anything, nothing that I get.

Out here the sun goes down all night and we have not seen a soul since the cop on the Harley three days back. Mr. Henderson dropped us off in his pick-up. I should call him and thank him but the signal out here stinks

It is after all the edge of desert.

The nights get cold.

It is just me and the birds.

…

I go to the loo and switch off the corridor light bed down again beside the potted lavender, I try to get back to the chaps, but we are stifled by a freak system common to these parts

You have got to be quick to shake down the blankets as the sharp and cloying desert sandgrit gets in everywhere. Soon a heavy morning heat will make us groggy, punch drunk, always get up and try when we hear the bell. The toucan was first and was well through the routine, some penguins were having a dustbowl bath others were just dozing and twitching a bit. Krill dreams.

‘No trucks Charlie?’

He shakes his head and would have heard, toucans are light sleepers and always keep an ear out.

Cactus is unknown round here these days, climate warming, but there are prairie roses behind the lavender pots if you care to look.