(from a wonderful site that is no longer - Surgery of Modern Warfare)


My yard is so brown. Still, one hundred blackbirds are scattered all over it, feeding. There's been no rain so they can't be digging for worms. Maybe overnight there was an influx of bugs that live well in dry grass. There are probably more like fifty blackbirds, but I'm not counting. I'm tired from watching the American Movie Classics channel all night. Back-to-back Robert Mitchum films. I stand in front of the window to stare, hope the phone doesn't ring. Then I'll have to move and the birds will startle and lift up and show the red under their wing. The beauty will be quick and utter and over.

I scratch my nose. The birds fly off.

Now, I hope the phone does ring.

It doesn't.

I will call Neil again and try to keep him on the line. I'll describe these birds, and he'll listen, but say he has to go and paint.


The kitchen is dirty. There are pots on the stove from last night, and tiny grits on the floor because I pulled the bag out of the pantry and it was heavier than I thought. I dropped the bag and they spilled out. I swept what I could, but grains went everywhere. I was too rushed to vacuum.

I made cheese grits, veal grillades, green salad, sourdough bread. Neil didn't show. He called to say he was going to stay up all night and work.

Well, art isn't work. Art is love. Making art is someone loving something more.

Neil's paintings are huge. He paints them slowly, and one can take days. They show me up. They're so fucking bucolic. There's not a mean bone in them.

I wrapped up our plates with foil and put them in the fridge, mine on top of his on top of Tupperware that's on top of a bag of lettuce.

Then I had too much time to vacuum.


The blackbirds are in the pine trees making a racket, but you can't see them until they jump branches. It's nice how one flies off and everyone gets up and goes. That's a good way to live. Except for the first bird, who has to be the most daring, and then comfortable knowing what she's done has just affected fifty other birds. I'd be the last bird off the tree.


I scatter grits on the lawn like snow. One cup makes enough for twelve people. Maybe the blackbirds will choke if they eat them raw. I grab the hose and water the grits and try to mash them into the lawn by setting the nozzle on rocket spray.


Neil drives up and gets out of his truck holding a painting in front of him, and all I can see is a brown and white giraffe standing quiet in the middle of so much tundra.