When I hear or see a bird, my mood lifts. This is instant, and always. Birds peck at my half-awake imagination. Their bones are hollow, their air prehistoric. Their stares […]
Strapped sandals lift the lady above the lawn. Hung linens adopt her hippy contours. This is no steamy Tide commercial. Our star is absorbed in cooler, wetter realities. She wears a blue dress, white scarf.
Shake it before a patch of light: one dwarf, one lined, one slender.
The new Caledonian, the Eastern Pacific, and—careful, she’s tumbled to a corner— Hippocampus Denise, the smallest of the small, stretching one full centimetre from her Cyrano de Bergerac snout, over her lumpy coronet, down the bony plates (two knobs and a spine at each junction), through the jovial tail, in, in, in. The museum owns 3,000.