Chickens

The grand scheme of things is of no interest to me. Rather it’s the incidentals, the minutiae observed, and reported fragments of reality that matter. How the occupation between the edges of the sink and stovetop is the extent of workspace, and mutation of elsewhere, and skills of novice jugglers. How recombination of energy creates patterns of destruction from cramped conditions as wide as baseball parks challenge skills of master jugglers to block explosions while operating stovetop firework systems. How the occupation of the pool of water behind the passenger seat, identical to tides, swooshes when I stop at red and go on green keeps me grounded.