Syllabary


I sit here with coffee mug in hand, surfin’ the net,

Checking FB, fabricating another alter ego.

the sounds of Macy’s T-day parade streaming through the walls of our pier and beam house.

 the smells of grammas sweet potato pie.

Outside a crested cardinal perches on a mesquite log, the log laying in sunflowers.

Logging off the buzz of the binary universe, I hear the syllabary of his song:

He sings: sweet, sweet, sweet. Then, he – chipchipchipchip like a refrain from an antiquated typewriter.

I hear him addressing seeds saying: prettyprettypretty.

 

 

 

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