Few people truly understand the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Most think that they do, but their confusion lies in the assumption that any old garden variety leaf can make this sound. Of course, this is entirely mistaken. Any connoisseur or even enthusiastic amateur of rustling will tell you that for the sound to properly take shape, its material must be thin and dry, lightweight enough to move erratically at the slightest breeze and rough enough to produce the characteristic scratching of a true rustle. Otherwise, (they will invariably continue, oblivious to the distant glaze that has begun to form over your eyes), the sound that results is sub-par and confused for actual rustling only by those lacking in proper distinctive capabilities.
These people experience life in categories and prefer respectable shelving. When they are moved, it is because they fully understand the repercussions. Approach with reckless eyes.
—
The city is never dark. Short of the occasional broken street light or back alley, Denizens of the Concrete rarely encounter the loss of sight that otherwise accompanies the onset of night. Now, after three years in San Diego spent laughing at friends stunned by even the most mediocre display of stars, I found myself staring upward, awed by the expanse. A long sigh, and I look around. About twenty minutes previously, I was rolling north, pushing hard and staring down road signs in my anxiety to get to a place where I could stop and rest for the night.
But I get ahead of myself. Before that – this:
It had been a long day, and the bike was tired. As a sign for “Manzanar State Historic Site” went shooting by to my right, I felt us begin to slow. A cough, and a soft groan. Blackie the Wonder Bike was done for now. Time to stop. Sleeping bag, tree branch shade and an early hello to the sky. I disagreed. We needed to move onward. Forward through space. Bishop, a point now associated with victory and caffeine, though the rubber flying out behind my leather would soon make such maps obsolete, devoid of their original purpose. Mind, memory, and then nothing but a distant rumble.
Not now – not yet.
Throttle.
Throttle?
My will is unheard as Blackie turns against me. Her word is final, and I do not argue further. Find a sign. Wait, wasn’t there a sign earlier? Yes! A location of interest, not to be missed on your tour of the Great State. Come inside! We have magnets for your gas tank. Take a load off, you look tired. Witness time in progress, removing everything but fundamentals and the sign for Block 14.
Pain no longer moves through this place, and the dust gives rise to orchards. An empty shack welcomes desert owl, so with soft pavement whisper he enters. Slow. Kick stand. Boots on gravel. Do you get the picture? Block 12.
The path is long, and movement seems illusory. Darkness hides recent history because no one wants to know the names. This is a family institution, after all. It belongs to the public, and the public wants the lights off. There have been budget cuts, however, and regulations are defied as the sky reads the sign at my feet. Block 10.
Trucks are honking on the road, but their voices are those of a distant friend that you just sort of never kept in touch with. Block 8.
A lost child runs by, looking for butterflies. Block 6.
Do you understand where we are?
Block 4.
—
Old Bear greets the young owl underneath a rustling canopy. The sound is true, and he does not speak.
