My city was the site of 2 nights of rioting last night and Friday night. This is the response to a senseless murder of a black man by a white police officer in Minneapolis.
Today felt mild, sun and breezy clean air after a heavy rain yesterday. I visited the farmer's market and wore my pandemic mask. I bought spinach to eat, basil to plant.
Home and my cell phone gives off a funny buzzing alert noise, not like anything I recognize, except I know the sound to be a public service alert. The text states that there is an 8 pm curfew tonight because of the rioting. Many cities, Seattle included, have the same. It feels like further straining an already pained world. We're in a pandemic, quarantined, stressed, and now this. Our horrid leader tweets off something supporting a violent response.
There is the body of a dead mole languishing in a bucket in my yard. I had to trap it to save my garden areas of garlic beds, new cucumber starts and whole sections of herbs and flowers. It succumbed to my trap. Donning my purple rubber gloves I loosen the cinch of the trap and drop the gray body into a plastic bag. I carry it down to my little side trail lined with thick black berries and wild clematis. I Drop it into the brambles, and continue walking down the Spring water trail.
No one is out. I look up and down and the trail is empty. I have never seen it so. People must be thinking that the curfew means they shouldn't even walk the trail. The time on my phone -8:20. The evening is lovely, with rain washed, air and sunset fading in the west. A half moon glows brighter in the sky as I walk. It is freeing not to have bikes whizzing by me. I feel rare and brave.
I decide to walk to the creek, about a quarter of a mile. Finally I see a bike, then another. When I reach Johnson Creek and turn around a walker is coming from the west. I nod and murmur "evening". He never looks at me (should note that he is my skin color, which is not considered a color, and he was much younger than me).
Another walker passes me, a young man, soft brown skin, beautiful face that looks my way and nods, acknowledging me as as I nod back. His hands are in his pockets and his face looks solemn. I imagine he is uncomfortable with the violence which caused this curfew.
The half moon is brighter as I walk back up the side trail to my little neighborhood.
Sunday night, the edge of June. Our town so quiet here. Roses in full bloom. Yet there will be no Rose Festival this year. Our routines have been upended, our souls set adrift in the increasing chaos. My garden sits quiet, blooming as though there is a sure tomorrow.
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