Scores of birds

Scores of birds rush off in a whirling cul de sac of air as steel carts crash together, nest, and wheel through the grounds toward the corral. The peace and order of the grocery store is lost in sunlight. A neon striate harkens night in its uncolored diurnal presence. The dream is at night, when the florescent cavern thrusts lazily its green powder of light back through the stone brise soleil as its acoustic dropped ceilings swoop low geometrically to the butcher counter and calls out in the shadow of night pulsing red calling, VONS.



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