A bird is flying around. It’s fascinating to watch. I sit by a tree. Large clouds. Abstract
layers interact with sunlight. Leaves fall from mostly bare branches. It is one of those o-
dd days where the air is bitterly cold, but no wind assaults the face.
A drunken clown can be seen in the distance. Stumbling. Taking a day from entertaining sno-
tnosed children with sticky fingers and red fruit punch circles surrounding their lips. “T-
hose damned rascals”, he says, passing underneath the bridge. Visions of trolls.
It is too cold for insect life and wild animals – rabbits, skunks, deer – to be out and ab-
out. Even the foxes are to0 busy holing themselves up to trot like the awful matador/peaco-
cks they are. So I found myself alone among the trees watching a solitary bird fly through
I wonder if it is lost. Like the deer I saw last night sitting alone in the cemetary. It had
been two weeks since my last sighting. Even then, it was too cold. They were two little chi-
ld deer milling about at 2 AM with, presumably, their Mother or an older sibling. I saw them
for about a month every night.
Their eyes at night, reflecting the lamp, a terrible sight to behold. Confusion. Terror. The
elk, with their horns, are a potent image. Tall. With these mangled things sticking out of t-
heir heads. Vaguely human. Cave paintings.
I wonder about this bird, though.