Birds on a Bus
The guy behind me squawks at his seat mate. "I used to live just over there until my wife tried to knife me and I got put in jail.” Heads bob. Ears stretch back and flap like wings. “The bitch! She attacks me and I'm the one who gets charged.” Heads freeze face-forward. Alert. Ears snap back into place above jaws. Oh, I so want to turn and gawk at him. To see if he has scars. Missing teeth. Taped glasses. Greasy hair. A beer belly topping spindly legs. The bus stops. I hear him skitter out the door behind me as bits of feather float and land. Squinting side-eye through the real-estate ad opaquing the window I wait for him to strut past. Hoping he will somehow surprise my cliches. Waiting. Waiting. Until I realize he must have winged it back the way we came.
Spring Training
A cloud, shaped like a baseball bat, squats on the horizon, blocking the sun that’s rising over the playing field. It shadows the sun all day. Hovers over the stands at mid-morning. Stares the fans down at high noon. Sweats out into the mid-afternoon. In the evening, the sun softly pushes back, bleeds orange and pink light around both sides of the bat-shaped cloud. The cloud angles back. Stops. Lets the sun move forward without it. But a strong wind, confusing the sun with a baseball, whips around, sweeps the cloud back, then forward, knocking the sun out through the night.
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