Bougainvillea

In the August wind the bougainvillea flowers and petals from the plant at the house front come in through the open window and door. A fine black dust comes in as well from the ongoing construction on the street and the red and pink petals and the black dust swirl on the white ceramic tiles like the fine aluminum powder on the inside of an Etch-a-Sketch screen, endlessly drawing the shape of the days by the unattended  minute and hour. Two little dogs, one white and one black, blow in as well and swirl as well, sometimes resting in the right angle of a corner or beneath the curtain hem at the long back window, sometimes blowing back out again. They always come back, and more flowers arrive, and more dust, and nothing and no one is moving in the house except for the dogs and the flowers and the dust. Eventually someone will discover that no one is moving and they will see the story of the petals and the dust and perhaps the dogs and they will understand that this is all a short history of something and that all that remains is to shake and erase.