The hummingbird flew to the top of the Australian coral tree, silhouette of a tiny man. He or she flew around the moon. I stood in the driveway watching the whole time.

Two hummingbirds or three. Silhouettes still in the tree, and they don’t get along. They’re such fighters. One zooms in to attack, the other careens away, disappears in space.

Little dog barks. From the open door, across the street, my neighbor’s making love or something high on our hill, whatever her loud vocalization is about. Sometimes someone walks by.

Iowa’s fields of stubble, frozen under a hard sky. Wyoming’s green summer drainages, cotton drifting off cottonwoods in little towns in the wind. One Chinese tombstone in the graveyard beside the Wyoming State Penitentiary.

Sometimes we hear from people, get some word of hello, something of a message. I look at them like we do a column of smoke.

Hiking to the top of a mountain or at least as far as the high overlook, taking in the wind and the views. Eating lunch, hiking down again. Tonight forty people will stand in the parking lot by Cheo’s taco truck to watch the Pacquiao Mayweather fight.

I sense your presence in the days ahead of this one; but I don’t know who I mean, I suppose it’s just a feeling, some echo of my own being, the interference like a sea wind (“like a sea wind”) of my own noise.

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