The constant quiver of the compulsive hummingbird, colors majestic. They are hard to pin down, much too smart for that.

Now, the crow, he is a rebel who lives by his own rules and reports to no one but himself. He is a proud braggart with a big heart.

And here is Ms Seagull, an elegant vandal who has to be with her watery pals searching for the next salty meal and the spray of ocean mist.

Ah, but the pelican – proof positive of a creator’s sense of humor. To look at its group flight is to be exalted, to feel that anything is possible.

Giving short shrift here, of course, to the whole flock of fliers that should never be dismissed. To fly is the dream of dreamers. Protect them all.

I would like to live.

I meticulously scrub every last inch of the clean floor. Then I do it again because two is a lucky number. On to the windows.
The sills demand a toothbrush and dedication. The rugs insist on constant attention. I pick up errant ants in the cupboards.

I search for more dust or dog hair or whatever seems to clog the way, always using the preferred tool for each cleanup at hand.
Same treatment everywhere, every day. Counting and repeating ad nauseam. A compulsion, a genetic twist, a lifetime sentence.

My racing heart trying to keep up with the times. Information pouring out of everyone’s pores at lightning speed until we dance.
A stiff sniff or blatant misinformation is in the wind. My brother’s ex-wife’s sister-in-law posted that Manson is alive and well.

The son rises in the west and sets in the east, children are worried about their parents, and the truth is one big hoax of lies.
These are the days, my friend, we hope they’ll quickly end. But the traction is there, and the planets are colluding against us.

I couldn’t hear above the shouting. I looked outside to see two men and a woman screaming and gesticulating at one another. A love triangle? A deal gone bad? *****, to boot?

My vantage point was high enough so that they looked less like humans and more like feral little critters in a stand-off. I wonder what the view would be from the clouds above.

I kept on moving up and watched how the critters gradually turned into ants, then mere specks of dust. Sentient no longer, just annoying little ink spots that moved nilly-*****.

Their petty struggles, their grasping for what is beyond their reach, their quick devolution into ancient ways, shedding the veneer so carefully crafted all these eons ago now.

On my return trip, I gradually saw the human forms again, no longer in a ******* match. An exchange of apologies and a shaking of hands. A détente for the ages among this trio.

The odds are against us, the wind blowing in the wrong direction, no good deed goes unpunished. But for one second, under the microscope, there is soft grace on a street at night.

Maybe it’s a zone problem. Or maybe there are just too many **** intersections. Could be the quality of the roofs, not to speak of disease, crime, and tainted everything.

The cave beckons as a cocoon for those in peril or who need the numbing blanket of forgetting. The bear is smart that way. The less exposure to the elements is their element.

Cushioning the body and wrapping the brain until it’s all over but the shouting. Murmurs have it that pain is just a reaction to the vipers who lead us astray into the desert.

I could do with a little music, a good book, maybe some See’s candies. Make me an offering, and I will consider it. I’ll open the door and latch it from within. Do Not Disturb.

The radical son was losing its blinding glare, softening into mellow gold. Couples watched the beauty unfold, basking in what was left of the warm glow.

Skateboarders were flying from one end to another without a nod to gravity. Babies in strollers felt the weight of what was to come as only they can.

A few cars took the trip to the other side without contemplation, just needing to get through the commute and  home to brace for the night yet again.

In the scope of things, I was but a minor player. Silently I watched my fellow humans, looking for signs of awareness on their covering skin and in their glassy eyes.

Stick figures working out their moves as they go, enchanting in their innocence and naivety. Each moment belongs to them, never to be eclipsed or redacted.

Who am I, you might ask, this spectator on the bridge. A lost soul at the rail who contemplates a final step.  But I keep watching, watching my fellow humans.