the mockingbird is four yards in front of me. it is 5:47pm. it is just barely December, but already my heart has frozen. i am no longer able to turn the great wheel of the stars. i am but a fragile stem on a withered rose. the old grandfather of winter has come to live in my heart. night has wearied my bones.
the mockingbird is perched low on a cushion of oak moss. he is taunting his feathers the way mockingbirds do. he is basking in the sun. he is wearing a beautiful coat of indulgence. he is twitching his tail and quickly bobbing his neck. he is deflecting and dodging and eating flies out of the air.
i decided to take aim. i have no rhyme or reason. i have a slingshot. i flex the rubberband once for tension and twice for luck. the bird sees no evil intent in me, nor i in it. i place a single devil's eye marble into a warm leather home.