Every half hour the train runs behind the arborvitaes with a few blasts of its horn. Their boughs shake and for a moment the pool light glimmering in the branches bounces up and down. Even the hydrangeas nod their sorbet embroidery.
The telephone pole above the tracks is a weathered gray wooden pole. The train rushes by and suddenly the coaxial cables hop up and down as if a small tightrope walker strides atop. Sucking up rainwater, the roots of the bushes vibrate from the pulse that follows down the tracks.
The shadows of the trees lay across the bottom of the pool. Above ripples pushed out of the jets mix upon the first blue inch of water. With ripples the water resembles a piece of metal hammered on.
Lonely a white airplane moves through the sky. Highmoving and silent, a coat of the sun’s paint reflects off its wings, and it looks like a fish drifting across the open sea.
As the sound of the whistle dives into the next town the sun continues to make its way down the slope of evening; and the shadows slowly begin to elongate on the blocks of cement and poolchairs. Evening cools, but a yellow humid mist still hangs in the air. Like a spell the red and orange trees shine white light in the crescents of their leaves. And silent breezes, passing through the filter of branches, rustle then spill over the poolside.
Once more beneath the paling beside the tracks hostas bloom. They lift the pale purple knobs of their spindle-stalks up above the rusted lips of pine needles and the daggers of a bluegreen yucca bush. The tunnel of air awaits another train. Evening is full of translucent waxcaps, and the trees wears spots of lichen. Drop from a sunshower.