Terra cotta pig

When I walk my dog towards Colorado Boulevard, I always pass by the terra cotta pig. In the heat of the sun, the pig just looks in the same direction. In the rain, he looks in the same direction. Here in LA the weather doesn’t change much and I think he notices how much it doesn’t change. But I see him in the heat of the sun and when I walk between the rare drops of rain. The best thing about him is that a plant grows from his head. And even though he doesn’t know the plant is being fed, the leaves sprout towards the sun and from the rain. The moisture and the heat penetrate his clay skin, over and over. He can’t help but crack open from the growth. And even though he looks in the same direction, I see him different everyday. I look where he looks. He has a pretty good view of the road, my street, my habit of walking the same side at the same time, with the same dog on the same pavement with a leash that gets knotted.

I wonder when I turn the corner if he peeks around or if his terra cotta eyes are ever allowed to wander like they would if he were, say, my dog.

If I were a goddess, maybe I’d turn colors and catch him. Or maybe I already did?

I know I’m here because there he is, the terra cotta pig.