So I'm in a park to go birding, and I go into this old shed and run into the guy who writes the bird blog I read every day. Also in the shed is a closet full of my clothes, including a favorite tank top I'd forgotten all about: tangerine orange with gold metal straps. Turns out, you can't wash such a garment--although I give it a good try--and (alas!) my bird-blogging friend tells me that the store where I purchased it is no more.
[Intermission to rearrange George, who is stuck to my head like a giant squid.]
So I go to another favorite birding spot, which has been turned into a tearoom full of Victorian kitsch. What used to be the pond is now a pool full of old ladies in bathing caps and surrounded by lounging cats, including one that looks exactly like my (deceased) Emily. She swipes at me, I push her into the pool, the old ladies are stern, and I flee to the top of a wardrobe. But there are plenty of birds to be watched--red and black ones drinking tea with hummingbirds, yellow-rumped warblers who use their tails to fly, yellow birds with bright blue faces . . .
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