SCENTING THE
ROGERS' STREET
The way my mild-mannered dog sleeps is beyond
any form or function. Just out. Behold. she rolled.
And then, in a flash, she's up and about when some
new smell comes to the fore - to check that window
ledge, that door, originate that smell. Turns out, half
a block off someone's walking their dog. Never fails.
-
We don't have those alarms within us, but we do have
perfumes - I'd guess derived from the same impulse,
but less to identify than to pounce. The rank of sex,
the odor of distinction? Who knows what it is.
-
Trees drop things, but they don't drop colors; odors only
a little. Cars have to fight with themselves over these
internals, the hanging pine tree at the mirror, or the
fine-mist spray of vanilla, butterscotch. A racket.
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