“Which one laid that huge egg?”
“Those are peacock eggs? Aren’t you going to hatch them in the incubator?”
“No…these are old or I don’t know how old they are. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them.”
It’s hot and there are too many mean flying bugs attracted to sweat that I can count. The ground seems covered in doo-doo, but I’ve been here so long I can’t smell it anymore. My newly painted mannequin-skin Morton toe is cut and bleeding a little and the big dogs are running around like nuts.
“Dad! Pasha and Blackie are running after something!”
“Call them over back to you…!”
“I can’t! They’re not listening to me!”
I have a slight headache from the shouting. I have a slight black eye from the allergies. But standing here with my puppy in one arm, facing these painted hills that look lit up from inside even though they’re on the opposite side of the sunset…I’m fanning these peacock feathers in front of the sprinkler that’s shooting water…all I can see is rainbow feathers in rainbow water in front of rainbow hills in my view. No one else is “here” but me. And no one will remember being there but me. And even though part of me wants to say I hate it, I know this is the only place it would ever be.
But I still hate it.
ps part 1 hasn't gone up yet...i had the image for part 2 before part 1. thx for reading!