The chicken brined and so did I, in a solution of salt, memories and music. That Easter in France with Rob and Paul roasting the lamb — then the one 30 years ago I had to work at the drug store in the morning and my girlfriend Marie dropped me off: kissing in the car, young love in the spring, looking back to wave goodbye.
Made a mimosa with left over Prosecco from New Year’s, lay in bed with the windows open listening to the woodpecker. And the frogs now at night, the song of many combined down to one…the dog with a bone she’s been working, chewing the skin off, licking, wagging…we got the old wall clock fixed by the Japanese guy Aubrey, and now I sit there listening to it tic…and I’ll go out in the garage to admire my car sometimes, just stand there and look.
The lake was choppy, the color of lead, and some ducks floated by like pieces of driftwood.
The crow can’t really sing, it clicks, it does what it can with its throat but it’s always real. It makes me stop and think, I know how you feel.
Photo by Laitche, Wiki Commons: Jungle crow, Tennōji Park, Osaka