JULIE ANN STEVENS

My patio is tucked in the elbow of the plaza, just three giant steps from the fountains that roar above the sound of 94.

It’s a vortex, really, for anything unwanted in the universe.

A magnet for whatever the wind picks up —

Or people above drop —

Or shed.

White cottony masses clinging to chair legs and bicycle spokes.  Dried seeds lodging under carefully placed rock collections.  Dirt and dust that’ll take any surface it can.

Petals.  Leaves.  Butts —

An endless supply of — gag — fake flower pieces.

And thanks to the baby bunny who is perhaps a little shy about doing his duty in front of the other urban wild life —

Handfuls of teeny tiny pellets — dusty little powser colonies —

Achoo.