Pescatorean precipitation

Even in our charmed corner of the world, the erratic shifts in the rhythm of the year's weather rock us and scar us.

I walk down Chester Street, where the ancient plane trees arch in knobbly nobility.  This summer, the sidewalks and neighbouring verges are littered with scraps of bark, roughly the size of business envelopes.  Occasionally, I'm witness to the plummeting of some of them, clipping the pavement, and - so far - not my head.  It's probably only a matter of time.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a stranger sight at my feet: about half a dozen tiny iridescent blue fish scattered across the concrete.  It was a hot Sunday morning, and the flies were already arriving.  I carefully picked my way between them, wondering where on earth they'd come from.

The Resident Fan Boy, on his way to church earlier, had witnessed the fish-fall.  He told me he heard a splatter, and caught sight of something falling from a cherry tree.  He thought for a fleeting moment that a bird had had stomach trouble - then he saw the fish, and nothing else.

They festered for a day or so, getting stomped and crushed, while attracting more insect life.  I found other ways to cross and walk, until a thundering hailstorm scrubbed the sidewalk clean -- while setting off several more wildfires up-Island.

I'm praying for a less biblical September.

Wild horses

On the morning of the Resident Fan Boy's birthday, I pack away my journals after taking my coffee cup to the baristas' sink.  I swing my packsack on to my back and step out into the shade of the coffee shop patio.  The early September morning is cool, but the sunshine bounces off the trees and buildings across the street on to the naked body of a tall, thin young man, prancing and rearing like a mustang as two police officers attempt to handcuff his hands behind his back.

It is an arresting scene, in every sense of the word, surreal and silent, except for the sound of his bare feet beating against the side walk, as he jogs on the spot, tossing his shaved head.  I hear his expelled breath each time he falls to his side in vain resistance.  His forearm is bleeding.

Not one person behind me speaks.  They sit transfixed at the patio tables with their untouched lattes.  I am also rooted to the spot, not knowing where to look, my way blocked.

The officers get him as far as their car, parked in the middle of the north-bound lane;  he's dropped down on his side again, and I hurry down the block to pick up a prescription for Demeter.  The lights on the squad car flash red and blue behind me, and I pass more people, some becoming aware of the drama.

I say nothing about this to the pharmacist, and, making my way back, I see more police vehicles, and about a dozen officers gathered in the decks that the coffee shop erected for more outdoor seating during the pandemic.  The naked man is now in the back seat of the police SUV; someone is leaning to speak to him through the window.

A young woman, who had been further down the sidewalk when I started out, now stands quietly by the curb, gazing intently with the air of one bearing witness.

I continue up the hill, as people appear in shop doorways, murmuring to one another.  There's a corn cob in the centre of the sidewalk, with two of its fronds scattered to the edges.  I pick it up and place it on a bench, not knowing what else to do.

It's not until I get home and sit on my couch, gazing out into the street, that I realize how upset and miserable I feel.