Robert (gurdonark) wrote,
Robert
gurdonark

palo verde trees

Phoenix sits mid-desert, ringed by mountains. I ride the elevator in the Hyatt, looking out the glass window at mist across a horizon of houses leading to those mountains. Priceline managed to secure me the room at the Hyatt inexpensively, but when I walked back from the copy shop at dawn, the fellow was putting newspapers outside people's rooms. I didn't get one--maybe only "frequent stayers" get to read.

I sat last night at a Pizzeria Uno in one of those "nice downtown artsy shopping plazas", in which the clientele was outnumbered by the service staff. I looked in a shop full of tourist memorabilia, mostly brightly colored folk art from the southwest and Mexico; it's always chic to knock anything tourist as inauthentic, but I rather liked the sense of being in a sea of colors.

This morning, as I walked in the dawnish air, green palo verde trees, a few still finishing with the last of their yellow blooms, served as havens for choruses of singing birds. It was an Italian movie moment, walking alone, in a wispy half-light, in a desert downtown, while songbirds sang from gnarled trees.

Another day of business today, and then home again. I am eager for the weekend.
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