Universal Signs

Victory in Europe, cuckold, the bird. One finger might say a great many things, two flags is a language. Ireland was entirely glaciated, thus the lack of snakes. I found a blue-jean jacket at the Goodwill, heavy denim, that protects my arms, and I am ready to have battle with the briars. Since I can't retreat to Concord, where the hired help might do my laundry, I fix a simple dinner, sardines on toast with a slice of onion. You shouldn't eat this if you have to talk to anyone. I'm nodding off, staying aware is serious business, and I think I'll go take a nap. Young war awakes me, a melee for animals unknown, snarling and yapping like nothing you've ever heard. I was expecting it, because I'd cleaned out the fridge and turned the compost, but I didn't want any part of it. An auditory event. My first apartment was right next to a train line coming into the Jacksonville, Florida, a big slow curve coming to the yards. When I wanted to go into town (the depot was in the center of town) I'd just jump on the side of a train. The distant past. But what I remember most from that time is the sound and feel of trains. Rattle your brain and shake your feet. We acclimate to different levels of sound. I might hear a train, across the river in Kentucky, a dozen times a year, when conditions are just right, or a logging truck down on Upper Twin, in the world I inhabit now. Actually, as I think about it, I've made a point to live with natural sound for forty years. Even then you have to quiet the din in your own head. You come out of a dream with a John Lennon lyric in your head: Imagine all the people... and a mocking bird picks up the refrain. You can cite coincidence, now and again, but sometimes things happen beyond the pale. You know something you couldn't possibly know, or you touch someone, and there's that brief glow of St. Elmo's fire. B said something, I don't remember the context, about accuracy. Pretty sure I have this under control, zugunruhe, right? I press against the south side of my cage, I really need to get to Patagonia. Please, just make my excuses, knowing full well, that everything is fabrication.