Oily hair wrapped inna bun with eyes that flicker within the sun. Walking and scoping and hoping for salt while the wind brushes against the rocks. Stale ginger ale and burnt fried eggs sitting between two buttered toasts. Flying and pooping all around the baby birds eat bits of crusts on the ground. Tension on the right brain. What is the next move, my little chess piece? Is there a strategy? “No, perhaps not.” Mr. Goodwill says. Buy a few things, donate more. Relax, relax, sit on my floor. Take space, take pace or soon you will wonder time’s such a haste. Gotta go my small flamingo! There’s a crescendO!