One thirty. Powder blue the sky and the heat, olfactory. There is a breeze, but warm. The air conditioning strains to keep up, and noisily. I hear voices and music that are not there: mere misinterpretations by my brain. A little infestation of small winged things bugs me, but my dog doesn’t see. The house stands outside, stripped of siding, naked in black felt paper. It has waited so long that it has forgotten about renovation. The rosebush is done blooming; rhododendrons gave out long ago. A cold bite in the morning air heralds fall not far away. The sky is cloudless, intersected by flies and bees. This morning a fox squirrel leaped from eaves to maple limb, easy feat for him. Groaning with refuse, the Sanipac truck labors up the street. And this demented music no one else hears pervades it all, driving me out of my mind. But it could always be worse.
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robgradens 
I love this. I was going to comment that it reads like a prose poem, possibly as flash fiction–then my eye caught how you’d tagged it! Regardless of how we might categorize it, it’s damn good writing.
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