Arbitrarily speaking

The truth is so many interesting things are happening every moment. Right now: The wind whipping loose cables against the house, pushing the clouds at such speed. Within one minute sun turns to shadow; it rains; returns sun. The windows shutter. A cieling board leading up to an uncrawlable crawlspace lifts up and lands back askew on the rafters. The swinging door in the kitchen sways and creaks. Gusts lash through the tin chimenys; the stoves inside vibrate a little.

Unfortunate plastic bags tatter through the streets, sticking to trees and fenceposts. A red bug, tinier than a pinpoint, hurries down the white wall, tracing loose esses. These must be the types of bugs--in large quantities--they used to dye wool, anciently. Someone writes all this down, abritrarily.

Elsewhere a couple commences their first kiss. Someone is on fire or dreaming of flying salmon. Looks up phoenix in the dictionary. Cries for loneliness or a wedding. Hides under the bed. Gives birth. Is born. Dies. Looks in the mirror and sees a stranger. Starts their first day of work. Avoids an accident on the road. Saves a life on the river. Writes a difficult letter to a friend. Stares out the window instead of the hard monitor. An orange striped cat stares back--halted. Takes a few steps, looks back, locks eyes. Continues this along an entire fenceline, so that one cannot even leave her future gaze.