• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 08


It is early June, and I hear birdsong —
it’s bright, coming straight out of sunshine.
The bird hides somewhere in the late
spring greenery of the garden.

I can’t see it. I am solely reliant on its song.
It's pitched at the upper half of the keyboard,
sharp not flat, and not C. Maybe A or G.

I took three flute lessons in elementary school,
so I have an ear for this sort of thing.
As they say, it’s elementary.

I suspect the bird is likely to be black.
And iridescent as fish scales. Tiny bright eyes,
cherry red, or maybe mandarin orange.

I have an idea - I look down at my Whippet.
Release its leash, “Go find that bird, doggie!”
It races down the street, chases a white Golf.

Instincts, you know. Elementary.

And then I notice that all three of my cats
are staring at the fence. My voice over-fills
with enthusiasm, “Go find that bird, kitties!”

They don’t move. The bird is still singing.
My ear catches a direction, and I am off.
To investigate.



The fence gate swings open. Swings closed.
Swings in the key of A, or maybe G. Sharp.
The whippet sits at the gate, tall and properly
erect with my garden glove between its teeth.