Spitball Army

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The promise of a fledgling’s life of flight, extinguished in the crook of a bamboo stem: struggle, entrapment, exhaustion, death. (BlackBerry photo: spitballarmy.com)

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I received your letter of the 2nd yesterday “by doggies.”

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Sister and I meet in my garden. Tomorrow is my weekly fertilizing day. “The Feast of All Plants,” I say. She chuckles, like a nun.

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Card is titled: “Bryce Canyon, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah.”

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Approximate playing time: 78 minutes.

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Hello my sweet, beautiful honey; I believe if I had you in my arms now I would squeeze the life out of you and then kiss you to death.

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Aisle 14. Walk toward the display of security lights. As you pass, they light your profile. Pause. Turn. Vamp for the paparazzi.

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On break, discussion has veered to the predicted May 21 end times. “I won’t hear Gabriel’s trumpet,” she says. “I’m tone deaf.”

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Forget about the cigarettes, hon, I can buy them for 14¢ a pack here.

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