After work, he sat in the backyard
under the arbor, watching the water
gurgle in the rose bushes that ran along
the fence. A lemon tree hovered over the
clothesline. Two orange trees stood near
the alley. His favorite tree, the avocado,
which had started in a jam jar from a seed
and three toothpicks lanced in its sides,
rarely bore fruit. He said it was the wind’s
fault, and the mayor’s, who allowed office
buildings so high that the haze of pollen
from the countryside could never find its
way into the city. He sulked about this. He
said that in Mexico buildings only grew so
tall. You could see the moon at night, and
the stars were clear points all the way to
the horizon. And wind reached all the way
from the sea, which was blue and clean,
unlike the oily water sloshing against a
San Francisco pier.