A tiny spot of movement catches my eye this morning, and I spy a 2 ½ inch gecko frozen in the shade on our block wall. His tiny arms and legs are spread-eagle and his miniscule toes secure him firmly to the concrete. As I look at my paper to write about him and then look back, he disappears. I now see his minute head and eyes peaking at me, shy but curious, around a corner of wall.
Dropping to the ground, he is indistinguishable from the gravel; his presence betrayed only by his movement. And now I’ve lost him completely.
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About Wendy Fallon
By day I am a technical writer, and by night and on weekends I am an artist and creative writer. Having lived in Phoenix, AZ with my husband Tim for 23 years, I find the urban wilderness in which we lived to be endlessly fascinating. Our home was tucked up against South Mountain, the largest city park in the U.S. The canal slashing across the base of the mountain provides inspiration for paintings, drawings, and sitings of wild coyotes, skittering fluffs of newborn quail, lizards and constant change.
