I’m standing at the kitchen door. the saltwater waves of cicada song have lulled overnight into a steady grackle gurgle. the air is cool now. I look for birds but the leaves are unyielding. the branches are stubborn. he picks this moment to reappear. he struts on lanky legs. he flicks cigarette ash with a flutter of his glossy wing. I tell the indian that he looks ridiculous — he is too pompous, too iridescent. his laugh chatters like a rusty gate. he hops up to the deck, to the chair. he looks at me with a golden eye.
the indian preens.