dangerous compassions

I call you / from the comet's cradle

Sunday, December 25, 2016

scrub jay

Ming and I were walking at the park.  I was complaining more than usual.  We saw a scrub jay.  For some reason I explained they like the scrub.

"Do you mean shrubs?" Ming asked.

"No, the scrub," I said.  "You know, like in the foothills, not the conifer forest or the real oaks--just the scrub."

"Oh," Ming said.  "I thought you used them to scrub pans.  Oosh, oosh."  He made a scrubbing motion.

"I love that, but I hate it," I said.


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