Dust Bunnies (at the Joan Miro residence).
They drift like ghosts, rarely meeting unless trapped together in a corner. A draft stirs the hair, and dust. The dried flakes of skin and petals of dead flowers. Insect parts, air, and light all these things commiserate in a draft of pure silence. The open window and summers night breeze introduce the skin, hair and insect parts to each other in a moonscape of cat litter that, yes frankly, the cat had dragged in.
They stir. Acknowledging each other with a gentle nudge.
Six weeks later:
Footsteps arouse the stillness while crossing the neglected floor. Dust covered slippers pressing some of the new friends together. Some get new acquaintances become entangled. Hair, feather pieces, a cockroach leg and dried flakes of dandruff. Timeless, because no one cares. No one sees.
More gatherings occur sometimes attaching themselves to the damp salty wall brought together by a sea breeze. Some groups drift down to the floor when the gathering has gotten heavy enough.
A week later, a strong afternoon breeze brings the gathering balls of dust, and hair, and general neglect together. Some of these collections have been bound as families.
Seven weeks later:
The ghostly white cat of the house sits in the room one night and gazes at the sickly yellow moon. After cleaning himself, the cat starts to cough, producing a real work of art among the dust bunny communities — in a matter of seconds.
A second round of gagging brings up grass clippings from earlier in the day.
The dust bunnies, who have been the very picture of patience, would like to own what the cat has so kindly presented to them. But they must wait for the wind god to deliver unto them what is truly theirs.
Two weeks later:
Through providence, and a door carelessly left open by the ghostly white cat, some of the more mobile bunnies have moved out into the cool night by the old back door. Picked up at dawn by cardinals, the bunnies have now become a large part of the bed for tiny hatchlings above.
The bunnies now have become part of a new life cycle, dropping an occasional feathered gift: a hatchling, to the ghostly white sculptor of hairballs.
A new headless clump of feathers, dropped off by the door, will come in handy after a few neglected months.
- Noteworthy (2browndawgs.com)