It’s my birthday today. I am thirty eight years old.
I had dreams of being pulled out to sea by storm waves. Woke up early and went out to the park. Neighbor was walking his dog. Told me there was a big car wreck down on Stadium Way. Went to the top of the hill to look. Cold fog hung around the trees. The evergreens were dead and brown. Marked with an X in spray paint; the city’s gonna come cut them down. Scotch pines. The tree my dad planted in the yard to commemorate my birth. That one was cut down too. Across the valley a murder of crows roosted on a dead eucalyptus. They were 500 yards away but as soon as I looked they flew off. Down on the road, fifteen fire trucks. A station wagon had hit a palm tree. It was spun around backward, crushed. All four doors laying on the grass, cut off by the jaws of life.
If I’d been looking for a portent for the coming year, well… fuck. Only thing that could have been more on the nose would have been the clouds forming my name and a big middle finger. Good thing I don’t believe in that shit. I rubbernecked long enough for my coffee to finish brewing. Then headed inside to drop a deuce. I’d eaten bleu cheese and arugula. The shit was historic. This was my portent. This year I will move mountains.