The day, the time, the wish, the frequent citings of truth, the nomenclature of birds chirping. The box with the hole in it on the post of the deck houses those chirps, the baby ones who fly and flitter as if gold flakes are wings.

As bright and happy as a chirping swallow can be in its element, untainted by human worries, with the air currents of the lake laughing under its wings.

I wish someday to fly. First, to learn to fly. Better be soon, at 66, my noggin is fairly aloof about what's up and what's down. Dare say I won't be when I'm flying, inspired by bird life.

My mom loved birds. I always think of her, when a small bird visits my visage.

I'd like to fly to Indiana again this August to see the DCI drum corps championships, like last year. I'm reserved to watch them online. Even that will be given valuable precious time.

Today is a day to stay inside, chilly and rainy outside, though I wonderfully appreciate the cabin's covered deck, looking out over the drizzle, salting drops on the soup green lake. 

And the swallows in the boxed nest on the porch post, chattering away in swallow language, like kids joking and giggling, constantly. God made birds do that to remind us of a childhood day. As grandpa, I miss my funny, boisterous grandchildren.

I focus on writing today, my third day settling into the comfortable, quiet of this cabin, surrounded by green trees; it's either sunshine blue or cloudy grey, depending; I've plenty of white paper, black coffee and orange juice; and I pee slightly yellow and look slightly pink on my cheeks; my eyes steam fiery red inside, reflecting my lit up heart, my feather in flight.

July 9, 2026  AM