The second time she got up and shut the window. About twenty feet below is the leaky sprinkler connection, the little unnatural watering hole that birds in the day, and ‘coons in the night come and play in. Maybe Mr. Skunk is right down there beneath our window, washing.
Do they do that like the raccoons do? Maybe their great stink makes them dumber—never had to evolve a lot of smarts to outwit things because * squirt-squirt * they all run away. No need to be wily, as Mr. Coyote would never… bad smell is bad taste, right?
2am and the dogs are barking. I am so glad I’m not their neighbor. I wonder how they can stand it?
I think I’d call, Yes, I would call on them if it kept up. Never have called on a neighbor—well, there was the one time—but I’d call for a barking dog, night after night.
Boy, things echo. At least it’s not sirens and gunshots.
There’s something very special to be said about living on the edge—living next to something like a state park or a reservoir. It keeps out the riff-raff, cuts the noise.
The only gunshots are the occasional crack at the coyotes up over the county line, or, when some scum of the city do happen to find the local park to come play in: do their graffiti, throw the signs/ empty beer bottles. Pretty rare, though, the shots. The graffiti and trash; not so. Why must they spray-paint Mother Nature, hmm? Not like they’re painting great works of art, no, they’re painting on great works of art.
Go find a billboard to crap on, you little shits. Don’t you know that all art is ephemeral? Yours should be flushable.
Yes… I’m saying it: Your art sucks. Why must you inflict it upon us? I can count the number of decent ‘murals’ on one hand. No, yours is not one of them. It’s just squiggly lines, repeated. There’s no talent there, I’m telling you. You probably can’t draw. Go home and practice on a piece of paper. When it looks any better than a brown smear on some toilet paper, someone…will… tell… you. Until then, please don’t, okay? We’re not interested. The world is not interested. You have nothing to say except ‘I crapped here.’ That’s not a message. Thank you for not-sharing. Hmm? Where’s your mother…