full_catastrophe ovenbird She is eight pounds of hyperactive fur flying over the field. I see her coming and hear her person yelling her name. He says, “come” and “here” and “heel” but she says, “no furkin’ way” and aims herself at us like an arrow shot from the bow of a demented canine Cupid, joy dripping from her mouth, tongue flapping in the wind, not stopping for anything. “She’s friendly, she’s friendly!” her person shouts when he sees that he has no chance of calling her back. She arrives in an explosion of tail wags, kisses my anxious dog on the face, insists that I run my hands over her wriggling body while she grins. “Hello, sweet girl” I say while I laugh. She has not an ounce of restraint in her when it comes to love and maybe she’s wise in ways I have never been. She is not afraid to show her affection for the world. No matter what stern voice is calling her back she hears only the sound of her own small heart succumbing to delightful mania. That’s where she puts her trust, in the faulty machine that keeps her running towards even the remotest chance that someone else is running too, equally misguided, and headed for the most beautiful disaster. 260213 what's it to you? who go blather from