On my nameless, numerous walks to the bus stop I always pay attention. And it’s not exclusively to the stoplights’ primary colors or to the cars, fueled by resentment at their blurred commutes. I also watch for the smaller things that stray into the raw mornings like lost children. Their soft, sudden faces are a source of joy.
Tiny leaves bursting from trees like stars. Pidgeons’ flight: without shape or direction, they are a mass of hysteria: a dark , shifting cloud. Dogs on their walk – some I know by name: Lincoln the bulldog, Max and Thomas – a pair of pit bull mixes – and a deliriously happy smudge of white named Diva. Flowers discarded on the sidewalk, dropped by a rushing bride, her dress weeping sequins.
I expect to see these things every day. I hope for them devoutly.
But there are some things that I don’t expect – and they go beyond joy, beyond devotion. One day, as I was looking to my right, for the car that might have my name emblazoned on its hood, I saw something else. Tacked to a sign post, it looked something like this:
Significantly, it did not have the warning slash through the image – so what did this mean? Were jackalopes allowed in this district? Did more people than I realized own these mutants as pets? Did this mean I will soon (hopefully!) see such owners taking these myths on their daily walks?
Or…was this an alert? Had there been a sudden, dangerous rise in the jackalope population? Should I take care on my commute – lest I be subject to a jack-attack? All of these questions, I’ll admit, I found extremely delightful.
I looked for my phone, to take a picture – to record some sort of proof of this encounter. But typically, I had left the blithering thing at home, charging and doing goodness knows what else.
No matter, I would try again. However next morning – it was gone! My opportunity of recording evidence of crypto-zoology alive and well in Los Angeles had been missed.
But I assure you, I saw it – as clearly as I can see each and any one of you.