rosy oil spooners
i constantly encounter new orleans satire. tonight, it was a rum-based drink called "the roseate spoonbill". naturally, it was an event about the oil gusher that dominates all our lives (except for those who have dismissed it as background burner material).
i remember the roseate spoonbills i saw in the swamps along the river -- the first time i ever saw that species in the wild -- and how excited i was, having always liked them. light pink birds now dripping red and black, the round tips of their bills spooning tar.
in place of hope, i feel that certainty, that dread that means you just have to keep plugging away because you have no choice but to try, because it is your job to attempt to survive.
i remember the roseate spoonbills i saw in the swamps along the river -- the first time i ever saw that species in the wild -- and how excited i was, having always liked them. light pink birds now dripping red and black, the round tips of their bills spooning tar.
in place of hope, i feel that certainty, that dread that means you just have to keep plugging away because you have no choice but to try, because it is your job to attempt to survive.