A strange dream last night, one of home and missing motorcycle bolts. I sat with pieces of the dismembered front fork in my hands. Lucky for me, I woke up before I had to put it all back together.
I woke at River's place, a bit stunned from the whiskey. A pair of starlings came to the window sill as she was preparing for work. Starlings are, of course, like a bullying plague in the bird world, despised for their obnoxiousness and their penchant for usurping nests of "nicer" birds. Not so for River, who had never known a thing about them (let alone their latin name).
"They're so pretty," she whispered, "iridescent and spotty and everything."
I had to give it to her. The bird suddenly looked marvelous in the morning sunlight. No longer some terrible scourge, or cackling roadside mass, just a pair of beautiful blackbirds waiting for the warmth of the Carolina sun. Like the motorbiking, it seems that even the ordinary things look different from a new perch.