Penguin
She speaks of freakery, butt clenched on a small rock, next to a smaller pile of white shit, addressing two tiny white cats and wrestling with granadilla tendrils. Watching a hundred teddy bears dance on a washing line. Overhead a hawk circles, some shunt of wind above the perfect stillness carries its outstretched wings. Seed pods explode, crash down out of the trees: separate to procreate. Ochre paint peels off a bumpy wall. A penguin walks by. Not really. Sometimes in quietude the answers do come.