Lovely Thing

It had been raining all morning and everything still lushly green, washed; then in a lull, a flock of maybe a dozen goldfinches flew into the yard and flitted about. Then they're gone, an eye-blink away. I don't know where they spend the rest of the year. So beautiful against the green. Big fox grape year, the rains exactly correct for a big crop, there'll be many a drunken bird in the next month. 3 or 4 years ago was the last large crop and I managed to catch a drunken grouse, skinned (because I hate plucking) and barded with bacon, drizzled with Calvados, maybe my favorite fowl, though that's a hard call because I really like game hens, roasted on a rack above a drip pan, so I can collect the drippings, and I eat the crisped skin, and then the bird, with my fingers, try to have an artichoke with this, because you also need both hands for that, dip the leaves in the drippings, and you don't have to stop and wash your hands, just eat with your fingers. Wash my hands in dishwater and blot my mouth. It's a meal the fox likes, I know, because I see her tracks at the compost pile. I'm happy I please more than one of us. Back against the wall, it's good to know someone's covering something. Your backside. Buckeye was right, I was wrong, we are all accountable, I think I meant something else, but I can't remember what it was. Probably, he's right. Or left, whatever.