Birds of Calm
There's cold rain this Christmas, slick weather. (This is what the goblins do when snow is thick and you decide to put a snowboard under the tree.)
But walk. This is my last escape, to a cafe in town, before the coursing of the Christmas meal begins at Babcia's.
I give a smoke to a fishmonger on this double-busy fish Friday, watch his fish, think of all the fish in the sea, think of the Chinese brother who could swallow the sea.
Then on to where fishmongers don't go, in out of the rain to sip coffee where silken girls bring sherbet to travelers. A mother comes in with a pretty babe all burning bright. I watch the pigeons through the window and drink something African, I think she said. But to Babcia's and the jellied fish. I'll be eel.