Rosemary

At seven a woman unfolds the table on the library steps and sets out a box, a pen on a string, and a stack of paper. A line forms behind you. In a bed of blue mistflower along the rail a hummingbird hangs, making a sound you feel behind your eyes.

The ballot has one question. Shall the recycling bins be locked? Yes. No. The paper smells faintly of rosemary. So does the next one she hands to the man behind you, and the one after.

You mark it. The box takes it with a small dry sound, and she writes the hour in a column and does not look at what you did.

Down in the gutter a Mochi stops for a bottle cap.