Saints who are near

Somewhere in America, PBS produces History Detectives. Sometime on that show flashes a sign, "Missing Persons Office." Somehow I recognize it as something I walk by everyday! The sign marks where Clara Barton once collected information on the war injured and dead, then contacted family and friend with the final news. She went on to found the American Red Cross. I had no idea. I pass that sign every day. Today, when I ambled past, I pulled a flyer on saving the Missing Persons Office. Where would I be without my TV?

On the passing of a bookshop

Sadly, a bookshop closed in my neighborhood - this time a branch of a big retail chain. Still, there will be one less spot to browse, to brood, to sip a beverage, to daydream. It is true, however, that I cannot remember ever buying anything there. At the closing sale, I bulked up on mystery novels - soap operas of the novel genre. Last weekend I was at Kramerbooks at Dupont Circle. No more than five minutes in the shop and I had in hand a collection of Hafiz poems. I've seen his poetry inscribed on painting, in books, on drawings. I heard you can visit his home in Iran. I've read little of Hafiz, my own book of Persian poetry is very slender indeed. I may, I think, go back to Kramers.

M Street Sweets

Along M Street there is a terribly fashionable spot, the corner where Georgetown Cupcakery serves up frosting delivered on small cake, wrapped in ribbons and bows, perfectly accessorizing your cool summer outfit. People pile into the shop, curling in a line around the corner, blocking the pedestrian crossings and bringing vehicular traffic to a halt. There is a sign posted "No Turns on Red." Well, as my cabbie noted, it should also say..."No Turns on Green, Either."

All around athlete

There's a new duck in my favorite garden fountain. She flies in, showing off her landing technique in the water, toddlers screeching in delight. She's easy to recognize because of her blue feathers on one wing, and she loves diving into the water. This means her tail sticks up and her orange, webbed feet paddle about, keeping her moving as she investigates the pennies and nickels tossed in. Or perhaps she is examining the plumbing of the fountain's six spouts. Or maybe not all ducks can remain inverted for so long and she is training for a triathalon - fly, swim, dive?

Segway City

Cars, buses, even Harleys are common in DC, but lately troops of segways are rolling down the sidewalks. Riders stand upright, balancing themselves on a narrow platform between two large wheels, grasping a handle waist high. Inevitably, the troop leader has a sleek cycler's helmut, perforated for circulation; the others wear football helmuts without the chin grids. They zip around in pods, slightly terrifying the pedestrians - not so much by their size, which is small, or speed, which is slow, but by the inevitable teetering of the heavier set tourist perched on such a slender vehicle.

Fog on the brain

A fog descends on the backside of my brain, filtering old writing and making it ever more obscure. The lilt of new writing vanishes through it. Fortunately, it's a familiar visitor - some combination of too much work, over concentration, lack of sleep, and snacking on foods of questionable nutritional value. However, today, I have visited both the gym and the swim pool, eaten my vegetables, paced my snacking, yet still the fog descends. Time perhaps for a fizzy soda, a good television mystery show, and dreams of life and the arts in the pink pages of the Financial Times. Already, see me write. Tomorrow the fog will lift.