The kitchen boy comes out of the restaurant door, swinging a bag of trash. On the way to the dumpster he pauses under the crepe myrtles in full and premature flower, under the magnolias and their profusion of heavy blooms. It’s nearly midnight but the heat is thick as a double velvet drape in an old-time movie theatre, and the sounds of rasping in the trees are like instruments being tuned in the orchestra pit. The cooks have gone home, and the sushi chef. Only the waitresses are still inside. The security guard with the name of a crone comes out of his car and walks around the parking lot, peers into the lit windows of the sports store. The Pho restaurant’s been closed since nine; the sign in neon-colored chalk advertising their new bubble tea has muted to one shade: that of a rusty hinge. Hidden from view, a hundred forewings translating texture; tymbals rasping along the insect’s abdomen, to make the sound of the leaves we are hearing now.
In response to Via Negativa: Leaf wings.