Opening bars of Parliament’s Flashlight heard behind me. Car quickly crosses Walter Reed from Pollard at start of verse.

— Before I can mentally humm “Three Little Birds” they’ve all gone.

— Shadow of a sideview mirror moving very fast up the steep hill, retaining its shape.

Small parabola of grassy median before Glebe/Wr corresponding to similar tongue or spit of road verge near the Ethiopian Market (its small red car.)

Someone’s potted plant has fallen here: patch of rich dark soil on the beige cement. “The white flecks are balls of nutrients.”

Big trash day and I’m told to take a long wood board with me to the roadside spot. Here, others, too, have dropped articles too large or exotic for regular trash collection.

“An impressive growth of invasive plants I espy; and now this area, which was unique because I associated it with a painter, Fragonard, I have suddenly associated with a completely different painter, though of the same national origin — Henri Rousseau.”

Cold swampy day of the sort I associate with Hyde Park (supposed to have snowed, it somewhat rained, and is abidingly misty and damp. Hyde Park in my mind’s eye like something that preceded Roman Times. Was there at its edges getting photographed. It was just after that we met Hanspeter for the first time and sat with him over beers.)

That ambulance, as it passes you, bleats in a regular fashion, but further down, the siren echoing, it begins to sound out of time with itself.

There is an octopal or tentacular quality to that long tree root by the stone of the grassy slope, many suction-cup-like knots occurring along it evenly. (They’re redoing all the fences along there now and you can see what these small patios, usually enclosed, appear like: their barbecues and potted plants and lawn chairs).

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