Bonfire on Flatbush

On the ground: the ultra-organic shapes of sycamore bark, the trees are shedding it now, it collects in piles after storms. Pigeon feathers, I guess they are molting. Some with the band of black at the top. These birds are Rock Doves to some and flying rats to others. Mosquitos are starting to swarm more because of the rain this week, they hang in the air, blood-crazed mothers, lazy flyers, tiny, fragile, doomed.

The picture on the front page of the Times this morning showed hundreds of police officers honoring officer Russel ...I won't try to spell his name....It was amazing to see the sea of gray on Flatbush Avenue. I was confused when I saw the image because it seemed like such a formal gathering would take place in a grander setting. Looks so out of place on Flatbush. It's a moving picture, gave me the sense of the officers' sorrow, the thought, that could have been me...he took the bullet...he was only 23! It's like your little brother dying when you might have. As with the one woman that was killed when the steam pipe exploded...it could have been anyone, but it was her. People die all the time but under certain circumstances the death becomes very conspicuous, and the victim becomes a symbol of human vulnerability, and tenderness rages for a while in the hearts of those left standing, or reading the news.