and these are my fingers, swaying gently in the thick sunshine.
Having nothing to do with the mostly dead and still somehow very cute little animal that the cat drops at my feet, they (all twenty) continue in their quest to bop freely at the ends of my limbs and uncontrollably in my face, singing their little songs in freakishly perfect harmony and doing their languid, perfect little dance.
Refusing to be unhinged by any of this and in spite of their taunts, I praise the heavens for having still left me with every one in place and intact.
The balance of tradition not yet upset, they all crawl about my life as I try to work and hope to sleep.
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