The Genome for Lucky
Sidewalk ice so thin frost ferns its surface, cat-ice. February sheathes claws to let us think we might escape. It's toying with us. Wind that bitchslapped me last week today plays with my hair. On bare twigs house finches are improvising riffs no female finch with any sense will heed. The bird that breeds now will hatch blizzard babies which would die and take those fool genes with them. Still, the angle of the sunlight prods, the air is soft and what if they were right, what if this is anomaly, an odd but permanent early spring? Maybe those fledglings would survive, mate and spread recessives for luck, just the way others in my family tree took the right boat, chose to leave Oklahoma, went rollerskating a certain afternoon in Detroit in nineteen forty two so that when I looked up, there you'd be.
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