Day 67.

Description of a place in five minutes; plotless plootleing

There is dry yellow summer california grass, which fades into green where there is shade. i hear a crow caw as it swivels overhead. the wind only barely stirs the leaves.
the air tastes like dust, and smells a little bit like skunks.
I'm not far from the road, and there's the consistent sound of fading and approaching cars, like water running by but smoother, more predictable. there;s two big oak trees here, old and gnarled, and bent like a grandpa about to pick up grandchildren.
I see a faded and rotting tomato in the grass next to a paper plate: proof that this is not my spot alone. A tire sways slightly on its rope, swishing with water. I don't know how it got there because it has not rained in the longest time. i hear a thumping noise, sort of like wings beating and sort of like drumming . There's a tray nearby, and the way the grass is matted down in certain paths down the hill tells me what its for. Everything has shades of gray. The wispy clouds over head seem to have been combed into the hair of the sky. today the sky is blue. today the grass is greenish, I put my face to the ground and see spiders weave through the tangled grass. its one big connected mat, like walt whitman wrote. on the top level the dry grass is bleached bone white, but beneath it is yellow, and beneath that there are green shoots coming up. for fall. The air feels the temperature of skin, maybe a fever.I put my hand to this hill's forehead. sick with summer.
The crow is not happy. It sings to its brother in a raspy voice.
I've heard that crows sing patterns; that if you mock their calls they add on, as if teaching you their language.
The sun on the leaves filters through, makes everything dappled like horses.