Counterproduction.

According to the poems I have been reading lately, the world is pretty damn full of birds and trees that keep waving branches around for various reasons. Sometimes the birds are on the branches, but not always. Sometimes the birds and the branches are somewhere other than America, and the poems usually clue us in to that fact in the title.

Birds haven't been on my radar much otherwise, though we did have a creepy squirrel incident a while back where twenty or so of them rampaged a neighbor's tree, then crossed the street in a mob, and then rampaged a different neighbor's tree. So far I have not seen this phenomenon appear in a poem, but who knows. I have a lot of poems yet to read.

May and June have been my po-diet months. As in: no-po. I've written one poem since the end of April, and I think I will keep it that way. Maybe two, but I'm going lo-to-no-po, kind of like a cleanse but without any grapefruit juice or whatever. I feel as though I have lost pounds upon pounds of productivity. I need not-writing time, however, and I think my poems will be different when I dive back in again.

In the meantime, I will amuse myself by photographing the ground, which has more personality than you'd think, even though it is wingless and flapless and branchless.