Birdwatching

Sooo; here I am at the hump in the street where the railroad ends behind the feed mill.

a good place to get away from the cars and the people, the shops.

Just me and the weeds sprouting up between the tracks.

That low sun on the mill, the silver guts,

god! dying light makes everything look good.

the razor wire, the broken glass.

That little pile of styrofoam cups, that soggy jacket sprawled and withered in the dirt.

Those blackberry canes shooting out big colonizing arcs,

the milkweed in bloom,

can hardly see the tracks.

That thing they say about vegetation: riotous, run riot,

that's just exactly it.

no respect for order, it's always encroaching and climbing and wedging into soft places.

Those blackbirds are finding something in that tangle.

Spiders? bugs? Seeds?

Something to sing about I guess, you happy fucking birds, what should I listen to?

I need a soundtrack for this.

huh! two dozen playlists with six varieties of self pity.

some angry ones; some I-am-not-from-this-planet-anymore oddities....

Where do I want to be? Comforted or picking scabs?

Why can't I just choose something?

That raven over there found a dead bird and grabbed it,

Smarty bird, gotta make sure I don't get that tasty treat before you do.

Everybody's always worried about somebody else stealing their treasures.

Yeah right, like I want that chewed-up slimy tennis ball, Fido.

We're the worst, though.

All those walls and gates around a bunch of shitty tract houses

crammed around a golf course

and the mini parks with their bright colored slides and climbing bars.

There's nobody there. except the kids sneaking a smoke and a beer at night.

Well. That's a community. What we all desire isn't it?

Those doves, cuddling and cooing... 

it's like my first memory:

my mother is hanging clothes out to dry and, 

and I'm sitting on the lawn beside her

looking up at the doves perched on the telephone wires,

trying to make dove sounds.... doves...

Here it's all dusty windows and plywood.

dumpsters.

And nobody's watching the weeds.

No need for happy window displays and breathless promises of satisfaction and fulfillment

if you'll just step inside and make a purchase.

Facade. What an excellent word.

Sparrows hopping up on cars, picking insects off the radiators.

I wonder how long will it take for a new species to evolve?

Black-crested Bug Pickers. Ruby-throated Fly Snatchers.

Where's the White-shouldered Fly Unzipper?

I want one of those.

But I haven't spotted any.

What's this grit in my eye?

Something crumbling?

bricks, asphalt, paint, leaves, french fries, discarded panties, dandruff, shoe leather, newspapers, bird shit, soot, me?......... empires?

Everything but plastic. How nice.

Our hamburger comes in a biodegradable little box now.

so that it can merge more gracefully with the rest of our shit.

That oughta make an interesting couple of inches in the geology about twenty million years from now. right above the disposable diaper layer.

What is this in my eye?

Ohhhh, there's an egret perched on a shopping cart in the river.

how's the fishing, sweetie?

Here's the bridge to downtown. Terra Nada.

Elm Street Americana enveloped in a thousand blocks of cheap stucco,

with ample parking.

I don't walk in that part of town, it's like walking on a treadmill without the big television tuned to Fox News.

Maybe that's why the fitness center is so popular,

you may not get anywhere but at least you can watch a freeway chase from a news chopper

or pick up some grooming tips.

swallows over the river.

catching insects on suicide missions.

It's almost dark.