a piece of writing by Fred First
Rising, falling as they turned on their perches as each new spokesman, spokesbird, took the podium, a hundred giant rainsticks inverted over and over, tinkling, waterdrop metallic voices that swelled just before they all took wing, became suddenly visible, followed the advice of the most insistent speaker, and they were gone from sight, then from sound only to rise and swirl and return to the same two trees out of hundreds of trees on the same ridge having vetoed their twentieth or twenty-first itinerary. Undecided voters, uncertain of where or when, sure that they must go, more or less south, more or less soon. And at once they flushed, and headed north.more...
posted by dogs on trucks jr. @ 9:18 AM
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