EIGHT
I tried to write. Sat on my bed with my laptop in front of me, overheating on top of the bedspread. I had tried writing at my desk in the guest room, but I kept looking out the window and watching the flock of black birds. After a while, they flew up, divided themselves into other flocks, and flew away.
I had read reports on the interwebs from all over our area of birds and animals “acting strangely.” On TV talking heads speculated that an earthquake was coming. Others blamed it on the moon or radiation. The strange was mostly animals gathering together. Coyotes and bobcats. Crows and cowbirds (although that wasn’t particularly strange.) Dogs and cats.
“Dogs and cats living together!” I said as I scrolled through the articles. It all seemed pretty vague to me—and a stupid distract
