My car is in the shop again (it’s my fault—I didn’t trust my gut the first time around), and so I took my bike out to do some shopping in Greenport. It started to rain, though, just as I was leaving Salamander’s with some potato, leek, and spinach soup and a very long baguette. Already installed on my bike were asparagus from Sep’s, and two-and-a-half feet of rhubarb.
As I was riding, I heard the birds, safely under cover in the newly bloomed trees, talking. Of course, I don’t understand Bird, but I figured if they were talking about me (which they weren’t—I’m self-involved but not crazy), they’d be saying one of two things: either “Look at that Evil-doer on that silent Machine of Destruction running away with our food,” or, “What an amazing plume of silver feathers that old bird has, with that long bread tail and that multi-headed pink penis topped with tree shade; and look at those red, grey, and blue paddles she’s using to swim through the current! Damn, she still has it going on.”
Maud bought me plaid Vans for Mother’s Day a couple of years ago. She is a particularly beautiful young bird herself, though her dad and I have always called her Moose.