Three days into spring, and the volume on the birds and the frogs is already turned up significantly. The mornings begin with the sound of Northern flickers hammering their beaks onto the metal roof. They do this to attract a mate and also to defend their territory. Their frenzied drilling makes them hungry, so after a few rounds of competitive roof-pecking, I find them in the front yard or the back slope—vigorously eating worms as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Those flickers are truly a work of art, with their black bibs, polka-dotted chests and red-orange feather shafts on their tails. I never get tired of looking at them.
This is the last week of my birthday gift challenge to write one 54-word micro-story a day for 54 days. At some point, I may share the full set. For now, here is another four, following the first three I shared a few weeks ago.
Community Chest
You can’t win without New York. That is a statistical fact. We all admire the railroad barons for their flamboyance and miles of track. But they do not win.
Dogs die.
Shoes wear out.
Irons rust.
Hats get crushed.
Battleships sink.
Boardwalk is overrated.
Free parking won’t save you.
You might as well go.
Gossip Swamp
...Listen, I saw him...She would not want anyone to know...There’s a lack of...I couldn’t be married to that guy for...What does his mother...No, I’m telling you, she’s not admitting...If it were anyone...Yeah, shocked the shit out of...I give them five years...
The swamp is thick with dense mud. And we walk into it anyway.
Sandhill & The City
The crane lifts, turning toward monuments of light; forming new geographies between the spaces of things.
This entity is a magnificent force. Never mind its peaky looking carriage. It maneuvers over fields, around heavy steel; was born to find its way.
You look up, not knowing whether it is a bird or a machine.
Bento Box
Every Thursday, the four friends gather for lunch. Before ordering, each writes a confession on their napkin and passes it to the right, where the words will rest in the darkness of their lunch companion’s lap.
Afterward, they wipe their mouths with the inky unread napkin, and kiss each other good-bye for the week.