TRUTH
The cedar-round table has dark brown spots. I daub a paper towel with bleach. The pungent disinfectant will remove bird shit, followed by a fresh water rinse to make a space for the toll house cookie. There will be some crumbs for Mr. Finch. Who will land on balanced wings.
Out here between climate extremes we crunch parliaments, Heraclitus, Pythagorean assemblies, jousting a circus world of elephants and donkeys. We tweet and twitter. A clatter of washboard thimbles, Fatima the Fortune Teller, the Fat Lady. Both say our climate is not overheated. They say the shuttlecock with left-wing-only feathers, scientifically designed for flight, has perpetuated a hoax.
Our thought traces the dips and swirls. Warp and woof accumulate, spinning lines of a stained glass window to interpret the universe. Or more simply, the binomial theorem. It all works out.
Strange scents of hot cooking oil drift over the fence. A reminder. Roll the Recology bin out to the curb. Big plastic wheels.
On my way back the gate blows shut. The latch string breaks. So go around the house, through the front door, come back out around and see -- the latch is loose.
Now! My vindication for saving those pieces of bamboo so conveniently stacked. And the blue sprinkler wires in the garage. And for hiding a few essential tools.
Tighten the latch. Cut a node of bamboo. Twist a bit of wire. Three minutes and the latch handle is renewed.
