The little scout birds I have are wondrous little fellows. I would be even closer to being out of my mind without them. They not only bring back word on who is awake and roaming the lands, but peek at journal entries and bring back the scoop on who is saying what, and the notes that others leave them. So I spend my time sitting here in front of the fire listening to the messages my little birds whisper in my ear. No responses to what I write, but of course my journal is hidden here with me. And even if they had birds as skilled as mine to peek for them, what do you say to someone who appears to be two cards short of a tarot deck. I hear of the bantering back and forth between friends and lovers, sisters and brothers, legends and their newest trainees, and those that care about the condition of others and those who only strive to cause stress, resentment, and tears. In other words, all the same stuff… different day. I did awake to a couple messenger birds pecking at the seed I threw in the corner for birds both foreign and domestic. Each carrying a poke from someone near and dear. Each trying in their own way to get my attention, and keep me from sliding even farther into despair. I do appreciate the effort, and wish I could think of something profound to say in return. Something that would tell them how glad I am to hear from them, how happy that they are part of my world. But for now I am out of words that have any meaning. All that’s left for now are the demented ramblings of an old and life worn fool. At least I have a pair of orange bunny fuzz slippers to wear that someone slipped me while I slept. I hope they don’t think they got away undiscovered. It seems my little scout birds are also part stool pigeon.
Gar