The grackles are gathering.
In the window of an abandoned building a cardboard sign with markered letters–don’t block the box. What is the box? Why must we not block it? How long has the sign been there?
There are painted cow statues about the city. You don’t know where they came from. They do not stay in the same place. Does somebody move them? Nobody knows.
When the sun goes down, the music begins. When the sun comes up, the streets fall silent. Perhaps the city itself sings at night, luring in the unwary with its siren songs. You give the street musician a wide berth.
“On Manchaca?” you ask. “No,” they answer, “Manshack.” “Guadalupe?” “No,” they tell you, “Gwaddaloop.” “Koenig?” “No. Twenny-two-twenny-two.” Signs are meaningless. Will you ever find Pecan street?
You get onto Loop One. There is no Loop Two.
“Do you know why it is called Mopac?” they ask, eyes eager. You know. They tell you. You laugh to keep from crying.
You go to Rudy’s for some bbq. While you wait, you go up the hill in the back, the hill that children in their Sunday best roll down, laughing and shrieking. There are trees on top of the hill, and a small path. You follow the path. You find a cemetery. Who does the cemetery belong to? You do not know. There are no fresh flowers. You smell the cooking bbq and hear the children screaming.
It is 104 degrees. The sky swirls with clouds, a breeze rushes through, a Blue Norther to bring relief. It is now 99 degrees. The chill makes you weep.
The radio station announces that its interns are performing rain dances. Will it work? You pray so.
Keep Austin Weird. You repeat the mantra. What does it mean? It does not matter. Austin must be kept weird. Keep Austin Weird.
The moonlights have not been used for years.
You take your Central Market meal outside. The grackles and starlings come for their tribute.
On top of a bridge, “Have a nice day! :)” It disappears after two weeks. Then reappears. Then disappears again. Then reappears. The bridge will have its say.
People build nests beneath the overpass, flightless barn swallows at the end of their migration. Children point as they see. You hope the bundle does not hide a corpse.
You wake up, struggling to breathe. You ache and your eyes cry without sorrow. The entire city is ill. It is the cedar. Twice a year the cedar takes its revenge upon the interlopers.
Plastic bags filled with water hang around the restaurant patio. Are they there to keep away the flies? Or something else?
It is fall, they tell you, but there is no change from late Summer brown and Cedar green. It is spring, they tell you, but the leaves are falling from the live oak. What do seasons mean?
You go to Roppolo’s for a slice of pizza. The man takes you up one, two, three flights of stairs and opens a door. You go in. There is a table. A hallway. A bathroom. A kitchen. In the bathroom is a bathtub. You test it. The water still runs. The man has gone back downstairs. You wait for your pizza in an abandoned apartment.
The sun goes down. The air fills with clicking. From beneath the South Congress bridge, bats. They blot out the stars. They come out every night. You love the bats. You do not trust them.
Your home is flooded. Riverbeds have filled again after decades. People have drowned. “Is the drought over?” you ask. The drought is not over. The drought will never be over.
Willie Nelson will be performing. You thought Willie Nelson had died last year. Perhaps he did. He will still be performing.
The clouds flash green. You fear for your car.
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