birdsong pulled

attuned to sunday morning birdsong i walk the mostly deserted street. inside it is all plaintive violin as i sit down with a mug of strong black tea and open my notebook to write. there is an attractive woman with short, boyish blonde hair standing alone beside the white counter upon which a pot of pink flowers refuses to let us forget. i do not want to not notice how her black tights trace the female in her form as the glass door behind her pours the gray on in. when i next look up after submerging my pen she is holding a brown cup of hot chocolate topped with a pale feather boa of whipped cream, both hands bracing the brown saucer as the coil of whipped cream wiggles like a woman pulling herself into something sexy. if i woke up, i woke up having wasted vast swathes of my life, blank pages the author never filled. all along the way the walk is sprinkled with hints of spring and for some reason i am haunted by what the scientists say. i woke up one morning and read that we may soon have more ocean and no fish and i still do not know what could i possibly do when i remain so fiendful & friendless and the imposter's chatter seldom lets me in? stroking my useless gratitude, how else can i continue? my attention returns to the songs i will not label. alone on a secret side street, i close my eyes for steps at a time, as if holding my breath to dive underwater, that other world you can only visit but never live, the world that admits you for the exact price of one breath. i recognize how fortunate i am to be safe, warm, and fed, surrounded by a beauty that i know will end. this morning i am led by song, pulled by a beak through the top of my skull, like a fisherman sitting in a tree reeling in my mind.