EDDIES IN THE STREAM

When plunking down a dollar at Seven Eleven, who normally thinks this way? That a lottery ticket will soar like a cello. But the vibes don't linger long enough for going broke, or maybe robbing the cash register. All it takes is a few theatrical thoughts to make the drabness come alive. Ka-ching! Birds and words take these properties seriously, usually kept in the wings, out of sight. Follow the money and stumble over a pun.

Doing a story tempts writers to ride the wind, tossing off catch phrases with a hook to snag an unsuspecting reader. Yes, the hook! If you bite, it's almost over. It's festooned with feathers in your favorite colors. You were bored, maybe. For you the fish of sleepy hollow will be extracted from the water with a stick of dynamite. All in the pace of a few spectacles, literature sinking.

Hear my humble plea. Revere the unspectacular. Towers clothed in English ivy and stained with the blood of forgotten martyrs will host no ordinary birds. The dove of your daily acquaintance is curious, watching you and singing a little. By symphonic opera glasses he seems not much, thus all the more sympathetic to a quiet mind.

A Frisbee snatcher is our high tech hurdle jumper, sailing through a park of mansions. Good lord, there is a world that thrives in the absence of giga-this, mega-that. I dare say, there is a certain satisfaction to speaking in riddles.

To use words like this tempts people to dig for Latin derivatives, shouting slogans, and soon a crowd gathers. People are hoisting placards tacked on sticks, ready to be filled in on the spot, according to the plaint of the moment. No more dabbling in gooey paints, which tend to slur into brown. Fluorescent spray paint is today's way, dazzles in the sun, flooding flags hoisted by instant artisans. Everywhere the cry freedom! is heard, as cold weather settles in. The classic history of starving in a loft is rewritten by make-over investors who buy vacant warehouses, refurbishing with canvas awnings, fire escape landings painted powder blue. Street art is the last refuge.

My drone snatcher has flown to England on the air bus, to where riddles are a magnificent tradition. The sky above the snatcher is clear, making sense as far as it can go. It brings tears to my eyes, to remember my canary, Bird, singing on the door of his cage. Riddles are shot through with genuine freedom. And there is a pause: how far has the truth gotten you? The translucent answer is elusive.

Truly. I've no Frisbee. Once I entertained a customer's dog with one. Other then the joy we shared, trimming the hedge was just as fun, in its quiet way. I've no stake in the World Series, never cared who won --

The well read reader might sense that, here in the middle, is my place to lob a pitch. But I don't collect baseball cards. You might ask and we might talk, but I don't know why.

In the quiet of the night, not to be taken for granted, is a bright full moon. This clearly has something to do with it. It loosens the floor boards, a well known effect. It puts us in mind of grabbing for the brass ring at Santa Cruz, on the merry-go-round. The perplexing thing was when Bird hopped off my shoulder and flew out our apartment door.. The opportunity had been there all along.