The day after the mistral the winter sun rose clean and triumphant above the horizon.
Some stray clouds dressed in purple for the occasion, and the pepper tree put on some crimson ribbons.
Two planes traced pink vapor trails in a spotless sky over the Med who was lying still in faded jeans, spent from yesterday’s wild dance of frenzied stomping, jumping, and slapping, to the wind’s rhythm.
I watched the planes’ trails morph into feathers, festooned cords, and ribbons, then masquerade as waves on a beach before vanishing. All that time wondering … will I ever be beautiful enough for you.
A mourning dove flew by in a flash of copper wing, landed on the roof, looked at me and said nothing.