Chogogo Redux

I made writing last night. Woohoo! It's the first time in, like, two weeks. I'm so proud of my little scribble.

They don't look natural, like real birds, when they fly. They look like cartoons, their elongated necks in the lead and their spindly legs trailing behind. Even the sparse lump of the body spreads out making barely a hump, only the wings slowly flapping changes the vision of them from alien being to something quite possibly earthly and natural. The vivid pink of their feathers is lost in the deepening orange of the sunset, their silhouettes slice across the sky and their raucous honks sound too much like Canada geese to be believed. Mona lay on the chaise longue on the patio facing the sunset, her empty glass barely held by her fingertips above the tiles as she watched the skein of flamingos trail across the sky on the way to their roost in Venezuela, sixty miles across the sea.

See? I can still write. Amazing. See you Thursday.

--Barbara