The Bird
There is a bird. There is a house. There is a rug that smells of dust and urine decades old when the vacuum runs over it.
The bird doesn't sing. It argues with itself as its call reflects down the alley. The house rests on its sloping floors with planks gone soft in slivers that have felt too much weight.
An argument won on the pivot of the beak cuts above the open streets. Its triumph rings through fences, clangs past dumpsters, flies over a litter of palm dates no one recognizes as fruit.
A scrambled heaving of the city races down the bluffs, and the victory, flung through the air with so many others, is swallowed by the dingy, foamy maw.
The bird doesn't sing. It argues with itself as its call reflects down the alley. The house rests on its sloping floors with planks gone soft in slivers that have felt too much weight.
An argument won on the pivot of the beak cuts above the open streets. Its triumph rings through fences, clangs past dumpsters, flies over a litter of palm dates no one recognizes as fruit.
A scrambled heaving of the city races down the bluffs, and the victory, flung through the air with so many others, is swallowed by the dingy, foamy maw.