displacements
It's a bright sunny day, though remnants of snow are still on the ground, adulterated by salt mined from the ocean and dirt from the wheels of traveling SUVs. Two seagulls just flew past my father's window.
One has landed on a tall, old trunk-for-electricity-pole. On two sticks for legs, it has turned itself all around, looking this way and that, seemingly asking itself, "Where the hell am I? Honey, I think we're in a land-locked state. Did we not take that right after the salt flats?"
Its partner flies in circles around the pole. "God damn it's cold."
Christmases are like this. And I have learned to like them.
The gulls are back in flight. May they find some semblance of a bearing, or at least a frozen fish stick in an alley along the way.
One has landed on a tall, old trunk-for-electricity-pole. On two sticks for legs, it has turned itself all around, looking this way and that, seemingly asking itself, "Where the hell am I? Honey, I think we're in a land-locked state. Did we not take that right after the salt flats?"
Its partner flies in circles around the pole. "God damn it's cold."
Christmases are like this. And I have learned to like them.
The gulls are back in flight. May they find some semblance of a bearing, or at least a frozen fish stick in an alley along the way.