There was a time when I suspected that the universe was really just a Beatles song. I have since learned the truth. [Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.] I have since learned the truth.
The silhouettes of blackbirds gather in the sticky leaflessness of the sapling outside in front of the windy horizon sky. They puff up in the cold and hunker in the way that birds hunker in the buffeting winds. Were I a blackbird perched in a windy wintry tree, I'd sing the long ancient birdsong of spring, just to remind myself. Real blackbirds rarely sing songs, however. They only complain loudly, offended by the affront of a world run by lesser animals. The clouds move by behind them impossibly slow in the frantic wind, massive barges carrying rain somewhere else, far away. Blackbirds do not flit, they lumber from tree to tree, always looking for that perfect perch from which to scream their disdain at the world. You would never consider kissing a blackbird full on the beak. They have no truck with us, and they do not like us in that way. Much though I feel for their plight, out there in the blustery wind, I refuse the demands of the blackbirds. I will not surrender to their mastery, giving them the world we won with the might of our opposable thumb. Let them oppose our thumbs if they wish, we'll win in the end. We'll not sit, complaining, in the trees of Blackbird Earth.
The trees of Blackbird Earth. [Yeah, baby.] The trees of Blackbird Earth.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
