MUSING

Sitting here on the deck at sunset watching the still sunbright egrets circle above the green paddies on their long elegant wings, chests stuck out with special pride, and thinking for a moment how wonderful it would be to be an egret apart from the fact that I'd have to eat raw bugs, frogs and lizards-- yeah I know I know, they'd probably taste like ambrosia to me if I was an egret but I'm doing the imagining here if you don't mind, so butt out. Man, you can be annoying with your interpolations, addenda, corrigenda, interregna, whatever. Yeah I know what it means, I just gave it a new plural twist, if you must know, like I'll do your nose if you stick it in again.

Yes, the egrets, spelling their slow white calligraphies on the blue air as they ride the sunset downmountain breezes in ancient expertise, settling at last on their long legs at the paddy edges, like the finest ivory being inlaid in jade, there to walk nobly among the tall green stalks with all the slow care they bear so well, now and then selecting a raw bug, frog or lizard and gulping it down without even chewing, I'd prefer maybe an occasional saute with olive oil and why not some garlic, which is probably one big reason why species don't intermingle, then they take off again and glide, as if riding the notes of the execrable Edelweiss the village loudspeakers play every evening at about this time.

Blue rude brood crude mood, must be Monday.

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