Fitting

It was the kind of day that exists to gloat.
I wrote a letter of complaint to the department of internal affairs.
I signed it “love” with many Xs and Os.
The lazy summer with its flapjack of listless humidity.
The sky greening like a plastic dome light.
Hours of walking in place, of fencing with the chain link master.
Mysterious doggeries of little fears, of big sighs.
The present wrapped in buds, a moustache of birds on a bush.
O to sit on a deck over the earth and carve one’s name.
Everything is possible in the small pond out back.
A starling knows the fate of the world.
It says “whoopee” as it sways on the highest branch.