It googles out to what?

OK! so I made it up. Suspend my writer's license. But it sounds about right for just sitting here in the afternoon, under trees, everything going on at once. It's beyond beautiful, not quite awe, more than me, etc. When there are no words, I make a new paddle for my canoe.

This is the land of skimmed miracles. Anything will do. The roof vent of slanting lights across the fence shows there is a slowly turning peace. Insects investigate the grass, drifting in slightly out-of-focus particles (because I have to wear my glasses to write) which do not obscure the rings of Saturn or an element of backwards time. None of this stuff is misaligned, only seemingly out of order, as when yesterday you recalled today's impossibility, which happened anyway. Somewhere is the sound of an underground worm, a diet of politics and leaders transformed to castings in the bowels of the earth. The rings are accelerating a very bright fast radio burst, detected at more than a billion light years away, a moment for trimming fingernails and putting water in the bird bath and sending a psychic tweet to interested aliens. It may seem a heavy load for one scarcely known backyard, but, fragen shade. You know?

Here comes an ordinary drift of nothing much, floating over forgotten stories, tailing out to a subtle pause. The bee lands on my toe.

Usually these late afternoons, the quizzical ones query tips of grass, one blade after another in no discernible order. Why? Perhaps just the tips of things. Prominences. My toe, historically, has been quite uninteresting.

But today it sort of tickles. I move it. The bee drifts on, out over the lawn.

Something, however, caught your mind. Perhaps a visitor at your picnic table, dropping down for a bite of hamburger, leaving a memory behind. Nothing to tweet about . . .

It's a transmitter toe, an antenna out amongst the waves. I think so. By the look of things, the toe is my outer limit. But we know there is more than meets the eye. Even well bred scientists, raised in the crystalline laws of macrophysics, now make room beyond space and time for quantum pointers to a nonlocal reality.

Even as nothing much happens, this backyard radiates way beyond the fence. Three toenails ~ yesterday, tomorrow and today ~ would you say? Not me. There's the drift. The fire engine route just beyond carries a skyscraper crew, with nuclear mates riding on the running board. In my permissions are sentinels. Frankie atop the fence, catching wind of birds and squirrels beyond reach. He faces the setting sun, soaking in the last rays.

As it sinks behind rooftops darkening, pulling along orange remainders, fading to pale yellow, into final traces of blue, the bees are gone.



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