Let me start over.
This I remember: sparrows skulk in the bushes like rapists. Speed-walkers. I take a handful of feral fennel seed and crush them in my fingers, the aroma marries-well with the wet-tobacco-leather-newspaper smell of the landfill.
A pheasant kicks up close across the slough. He's what I have been trying to imagine into clapper rails these crok crokings in the tules. I imagine reflexively throwing an imaginary twelve-gauge up to trace the cock's rocket glight across the way, &&&.
We're all strangers on the land here, me, the pheasant and the fennel. Exotic garbage piled up on the bay shore. We've had our uses.
Compulsively I compile a list of birds: white pelican, avocets wanding their beaks as they do, egrets, whatever, teal, mallards, some feral polluted mongrel duck with them, shovelers in loads, clouds of peeps blow about ominously, audibly I mean, earlier we watch a snowy egret hunting in the effluent kicking up poor scared fish like a freaking dinosaur, I already told you about the sparrows, ring-billed gulls gyre like witches, hawks, whatever, some terns, grebes, geese, I don't know,
Maybe a bird without sinister regard,
There was more to say. Another rail running quick across the mud that I knew anyways was just a mudhen when I saw it.
I want to say, "Isn't all of it?"
What does it mean;