Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe

A man on the impoundment bridge confidently told me something plausible about the shyness of terns, and within 20 minutes a tern approached to contradict him. This could happen to anyone. Couch your avian observations equivocally and impart them in whispers when birds may be near.

A single line, inscribed in duckweed by frog-snout,
before its annihilative translation by great egret scholars.

My air conditioner developed a distressed rattle, violent enough to shift me from bed, and half an hour of fiddling & worry couldn't settle it a whit. Then it spat a wet little scrap of foam rubber against my chest and first it, then I, calmed right down. Exactly like having an infant, really.

Visit a building in a half-fleshed skeletal phase of their renovation, plan a sequence of beams & panes to chew through when your next teeth come in. Stick, punctilious, to those steps.

This time it sounds like getting hooked by the Aliso evening undertow, losing track of the sky, and feeling only the blithest, most playful fear because you're a flitting fish child coming up on the chill of the breeze. A bonfire follows the track.
https://telefon-tel-aviv.bandcamp.com/track/what-it-is-without-the-hand-that-wields-it

It's very nearly self-parodic that the song most reliably able to bring me to tears is eleven minutes long and largely about birds, but
"behind Land house a gentle cooing
the delight of once again being home"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FaT7ZCxI71k

Board

Room

Dream-stumbled into an urban mine and pocketed a nodule of prosodolite (formed from centuries of pitch drabs slopped from jewelers' pots & the yaps of passersby).

"...twenty minutes of 'bleating'."

This morning I had a second dream of being an archivist contracted by a Polish-American software firm founded in the 80s to sift their overabundance of floppy disks & cassettes for data of interest, and I've been dizzy ever since. I think the office may've siphoned my blood.

I need to return at midnight to see what appears on that perfect little shelf. My bet's on several framed photographs and, almost immediately, a single lick of flame to scorch them illegible. What do you reckon.

Went out on the last cold day of spring and found a new ruin.

I was so overcome by the pervasive floral jubilance as to be left incapable of worrying about the extended shotgun fusillade emanating from the trailhead.

Having used a chainsaw to split the roots of some ornamental grasses, I had to meticulously floss the mud & strands from between its teeth. Between that & the balking & bucking, it's hard to deny them a high placement in any list of objects most likely to be only feigning inanimacy.

Froggy vernal fog-songs about fucking to spite the heron and the high creek.

Injecting my eyes (left then right) with the tincture that will reshape my pestering army of mouches into stars & crescents and set them gently luminescing.