After a week of sun, slate gray skies. Better hurry if you want to spread fertilizer. They say don't go to bed angry but never what to do when the required apology is hollow. The red-winged blackbirds are disappearing into the swamp (I mean, "from the back yard" into the swamp). Yesterday a hawk floated slow and graceful over the house and the pigeons puffed and cocked their heads, one eye up at the danger.
My best lie involves New York City. Lately, I don't think much of Hansel though on the other hand ("and there is always another hand") when did I ever. The witch always sounded like a lot of fun. The kitchen is my favorite room, too. And look, when you're lonely, you do what you have to do for company. Imagine if she'd had a good optometrist.
I have been compared to a paper clip, a scarecrow but most often to a bird (albeit vaguely - I imagine a sparrow). Efforts to listen to jazz are usually unsuccessful, though for a summer I did like John Coltrane's A Love Supreme. Maybe I wasn't being honest when I said I hated Spring. The smell of burning, the ability to read outside, all those shades of green. Or is a question of saying what I think others want to hear.
In an email, a reader says who exactly is this "you?" So I wrote back, "yes."
Poached eggs on a bed of steamed vegetables and yogurt, constant revisions to the work. I wake up before anyone else, come here, and the sentences - just barely - write themselves.