October Noise

Kelsey Capps

The city waits.
The hours before dawn are
quiet, the tide
pushing and pulling back
a little more with each wave that
tumbles against the rocks of PCH.
Flashes of white and gray glide,
soundlessly
Let them stay over head.
A soupy starless sky blankets the slumbering city, sapped of its energy by noon’s
unforgiving heat. Hot like breath,
the encroaching smoke smothers
the freeway lights – muffles their
roar and sigh.
A car passes on my left. Sig alert:
Brush fires off the 101.

Hot and dry Santa Ana winds
flow over my skin and through my
hair… I remember his hands and
the heat of our noise, barely muted
behind closed doors.
The winds feed the crackling flames.

In my review mirror, the
sun is rising in reds -
so begins the morning cacophony
Red tailed hawks
soar their skies, surveying,
careening at small desert lizards
shuffling through yellowing thistles, as
thorned as the city’s population.

The faint rustle of palm leaves
reminds us what we don’t have,
and makes us glad, though the clink
of chained tires fades behind me -
We make any excuse during
would-be-winter when
seasons pass
unnoticed.

Passing the Hollywood Bowl,
a stream of orchestra floats in through
the window and into my memories,
a medley of sounds, blending
briefly as I drive by.

I remember nights spent in the Bowl’s
hard wooden seats –
My head in my mother’s lap,
the smell of steaming coffee
and hot chocolate
from our dark green thermoses,
mingling with the smell of the night’s
pepper trees and faint oleander –
sounds fleeing out
and smells flowing in…
Nights of raw senses –
half dreaming,
half listening –
as cellos touch string.