My dog Jenny smells coyotes and cats with her superpower nose that can detect animal life through closed windows. It amazes me what she can see with her nose.
I stand at the window staring at trees and grass, and bits of sagging sky through the hills, and see nothing living or breathing. Though the hills may be alive with the sound of music.
Jenny doesn’t hear the sound of music. She smells it with her nose, a magical nose that interprets each scent with scientific accuracy, while I squint to read a street sign in the dark.
I wish I had a nose that can see.
My magical nose would find a Caribbean beach to wade in warm aquamarine sea, the sunlight hugging me, warming my brown skin, wet and salty, but not like taffy. My skin is dry like wisps of windswept sand as the ocean speaks in a way it only can.
The tide rolls in and my toes sink into wet scalloped sand. Above, gossiping gulls scan the beach from atop a thatched roof. They kvetch because they caught air instead of food. The gulls need to take a break from gulling and rest on a fence or light post; their squawks drown out the drone of voices from humans sauteing in the sun.
The gulls stretch their wings and jump into sky, circling the human world below, shielded by baseball caps and straw hats. Humans need protection from the sun and each other. Gulls just need table scraps and then to crap on ornamental humanity.