ROUX

Our bird feeder, salvaged from the dumpster at the apartments down the street, used to be a large, iron, candle holder. It's base, turned upside, down makes a bowl that's well out of reach.

Cats without borders come to sit and watch.

The bath started as a flower pot on an iron pedestal, decorated with wrought iron leaves, and four useless fingers sticking up, curled at the ends. Easily bent, these are now holding up the water dish.

Various stories might ensue. So time for a cup of tea.

It's the lure of a blank page. Words fly off, muttering. Shakespearean thunder flashes, foreshadowing a malapropism.

“See here, you've infringed my meaning!”

“Etymology perhaps, but . . .”

“Please -- offer an apology, an African violet at the very least.”

“Oh, yes? We were at the top of the Ferris wheel when you ignored me.”

“You were the Eiffel Tower once, preening structure, when birds flew through.”

“So much for structure.”

“Can we ignore thought which flies on so easily? Thought is not caught

by paws alone, don't you know? We might agree on North or South.”

Waves of applause.

“Then I propose a toast -- Drink Me --”

“But it makes no sense.”

“Ah, the mountain moves! Now we're getting somewhere.”

Shakespeare pounds his gavel.

“To be or not to be, there's the rub. False logic. An African by any other name.”

The crack of dawn, I say, like a whip.

“Your honor, I object. The witness has been coached in climate change.”

“Don't interrupt.”

“Fake News!!”

“It's getting out of hand. We were on course for something comfortable.

A Cheshire cat perhaps, a talking lizard, even a stray cat.”

“See here, etymology is serious. Not to be taken lightly. It's Old Testament,

Armageddon, thermonuclear bureaucracy and I get testy

in the backwash of ferrous rust.”

The dish, made of plain fired red clay, is now filled with water. On the bottom is an inscription: Made in Italy. (Cunieform) Mr. Finch can't read it, much less the definition of general war that launches thermogeddon.

“I declaim, deny and depopulate the vox populi, hoi polloi, a pox upon

such explanations.”

“Fake leaders!”

Soft shades of muffled violet, ultrablue . . .

“Recall the redwood grove of early days, sun slanting down

on a sleeping snake?”

“Well yes, then we are somewhere, though unspeakable.”

More applause. The gavel rapping. Order, Order!

And so there you have it. The space between being and nothingness. Is there a

sharp divide?