—THE DAYS HAVE NO NUMBERS  

               

                                  Shredding the Birds

The songs can be ballads or anthems, but to her they’re always starlings crashing into a bedroom window, her mother oblivious in a slow swivel saying, “What was that that?” while never bothering to look.

Her dad taught her guitar, wrap-around arms/melody and hairy disharmony. This was always alone.

“You did good,” he’d say when he finished.

Tonight, she flings her pick into the crowd, shreds a chord and belts her lyrics to all the birds about to die in the rafters.