By Matthea Harvey
The radio animals travel in
lavender clouds. They are
always chattering, they are
always cold. Look directly
at the buzzing blur and
you'll see twitter, hear
flicker—that's how much
they ignore the roadblocks.
They're rabid with doubt.
When a strong sunbeam
hits the cloud, the heat in
their bones lends them a
temporary gravity and they
sink to the ground. Their
little thudding footsteps
sound like "Testing,
testing, 1 2 3" from a far
-away galaxy. Like pitter
and its petite echo, patter.
On land, they scatter into
gutters and alleyways,
pressing their noses into
open Coke cans,
transmitting their secrets
to the silver circle at the
bottom of the can. Of
course we've wired their
confessionals and hired a
translator. We know that
when they call us Walkie
Talkies they mean it
scornfully, that they
disdain our in and
outboxes, our tests of true
or false.
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We had our car, which was sideswiped in Baltimore earlier this month, in the shop while we were away for repairs and it was supposed to be finished, but it turned out that one of the parts was damaged, so I had no vehicle on Tuesday. This was fine, since I had several laundries and a ton of cleaning up to do, both trip-related and things Adam left in various parts of the house, but it means I was very boring.
We caught up on last week's The 100 before watching this week's (and I will never not miss Marcus, but I admit I get a kick out of Bellarke now that Eliza and Bob have announced their marriage), plus we watched Blood and Treasure while I tried to sort photos that Facebook uploaded and tagged incorrectly. I only saw my cats today and a few deck squirrels, so here are some of the animals of Oracle Park:
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