Birds

Stories fly in my cloudy brain, like birds teasing seasons. They pretend first it's winter, then spring, then winter; heading this way and then that on great spirals. I believe they are turning the air, like a farmer who must till the soil, before he plants seeds. The stories till my mind with flights of "fancy free" arcs.

When I am driving, I see them. I hear them calling me while I'm at work. I feel them pulling me up into the sun when I've important things to do. Sometimes I feel their feathers as my own. I fly up above my dreary job, my terminal debts, and my little aches and pains.

I've built a bird feeder at my computer. They do not come. I've scattered seeds on white paper, on my desk, the window sill, and some in my hair. They do no lite. I stare out my window, past the blank screen which illuminates me.

Sometimes I forget all of that and I think of you. Stories fly in my cloudy brain likes birds I cannot catch, birds I cannot call, birds I cannot name. I feel wonderful in ways of wonderful dreams I can't recall.

I believe that there is a story in the air. A story between you and I. A story which has sent the birds on their migratory tours for hundreds of years. I've seen it in their eyes. I hear it on their wings. It is the fruits of their intentions I seek.

My platter may never offer you the fruit of seasons, but it abounds in pretensions of possibilities.