Thursday, October 27, 2011
No houses, cars, buildings of any sort. It is pure flat dusty earth. The only signs of human life are the two lane highway and an old bus stop.
The wind is continuous, blowing gusts of super fine, dry earth up in pale sandy curtains that at times become so furious they momentarily fade the glare of the sun.
The road is just in front of me. A narrow strip of tar once bright black, but now dulled by creeping sandy earth, coming in not just from erosion on the sides, but also by the wind. As it blows over the highway, a slightly darker canvas than the earth itself, I can see where the wind turns in spirals. Mini cyclones, small dances.
I am standing next to a bus stop. A narrow structure made of clear plastic. A curved roof, three walls designed to protect against rain and wind. Its brightness has worn from the sun, a force shining down without clouds to buffer its bright light. Pure brutal heat.
Behind the bus stop are four dozen flower pots of various sizes. There are some short stacks, but most of them sit on the ground. They are empty vessels, worn and awaiting soil and water. Some are deep and made of terracotta, others are so shallow, if it were not for the small drainage hole at the bottom they could be mistaken for salad bowls. There are tiny pots made of blue and white porcelain, the shallow ones are glass, looking like cheap crystal candy dishes.
I am moving them one by one, taking them from the area several feet behind the bus stop and moving them closer to the road. I am stacking them one on top of the other, creating three piles.
The wind continues to blow, swooshing in my ears, sounding like a roaring ocean.
I am alone here. Moving my pots into piles, waiting for a car to pass.