THE GATHERING

A bee zooms by. For the moment nothing else seems interesting. There are circus tents, or revival tents, or one might imagine a long line of Italian cypress trees in green soldier ranks. Or bee scents along a hike in hill country. It's worth the whole day.

Or at least a little ink. What could possibly be so interesting? Grandmother's paisley shawl? So whatever anyone else thinks, who cares? It just has to get written and that's the authorization, and whatever falls out begs the question. Insanity? Yeah!

The whole rest of the day, no explanation. A fiat accompli. The backyard buzz is untranslatable, undigitizeable. There are no plans here for the usual destruction. In the sane dimension people enjoy breaking things, torture, then sitting down to roast pheasant with white wine. Jasmine rice. Hard to believe. There are dissonant minds I do not aim to please. If anyone wants to think about all this, fine. If not, fine. I'm just the writer.

In late after noon, they all seem to come together here at the same time. The doves, Big Bee, robins, finches, squirrel, even the hummingbird youngster, who I bet hatched in Lady Hummingbird's nest.

How do all these different beings make up their mind?