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 – chip – chip – chip – chip like a refrain from an antiquated typewriter.
I hear him addressing seeds saying: pretty – pretty – pretty.