I sat at the kitchen table, a can of red beans on the stove, writing morning pages, trying not to lean too much on the nature of birds and if they have mental objects at all.
I could hear them chirping through the window. I looked up. But I couldn’t see them.
No, not through the window, I realized.
They were in the house. I looked down, closing my eyes.
The beans were chirping birdsongs.
Listening, the most profound and infinite museum of simile and imitation. Hearing, one thing in another. Life itself, the greatest drug.