napowrimo day no 19

 from THE BIRD ARTIST

Eventually, I learn to tighten the screws with minimal damage.

                                The breakfast oranges, the daylilies from the garden, all rife

                                                        with success. The way the babies fat  and their accoutrements

bleach white in the sun.  For fun, we cover them in blankets and are always surprised

                    at the game. They squeal with delight at everything. The deer. 

                                        The foxes sniffing round the porch.  The tiny metal cuckoo

in the box with the broken spring. They finger it's gears and smash it on the table    

            but still nothing comes from it--no movement, no sound. It's dead the way

                        all shiny things die eventually from disuse. The way all things

slow through the afternoon, songless by nightfall.   The cuckoo jerks sometimes

            and comes to life, but only if you crush it in your palm.  The babies crying

                    and the kitchen filthy, only when we whisper hush.