The rainy stretch continues. Great, muddy puddles have collected along Moberly Road. The sky is full of clouds. Ever watch a bird vanish into a cloudbank — a good bird; a bird you wanted to watch? Gone! Stupid weather. I’m back to making the most of the bird I’ve got; the bird I’ve been given — the bird flipped to me by a cruel and somewhat juvenile universe:
I love it when the wind blows up from the west, and tousles all the birds.
The birds are caught in an endless cycle of preening and touslement, living from gust to gust.
For such horrid, messy birds, the gulls become surprisingly distressed when their feathers are sticking out at rakish angles, along their backs.
