monk ovenbird The morning rose, furtive, from the river’s ruddy banks and I wore my red coat against the damp, pulled the hood down low and obscured my eyes, so I must have looked monastic in the mist. A man stopped me, said something complimentary about the coat that fell to my ankles, asked if I liked Monty Python and reminded me about the monks from Search for the Holy Grail, who self-flagellate by hitting themselves in the head repeatedly with a Bible. We laughed, both brightened by sharing a joke with a stranger, then I went home to a bowl of oatmeal with apples and cinnamon, brown sugar and evaporated milk, something warm meant to chastise the chill settling in my joints. I bowed my head over the sweet scented steam, not to pray, but to let the force of the day smack me right in the face. I am no monk, satirical or otherwise, but I know something about agony. My mind is full of jutting corners on which I bruise my ankles as I fumble in the dark. And every day my skull cracks against the impact of another hurled stone. I have no armour. Just a red coat that nearly sweeps the ground when I walk and a willingness to blacken my eyes with the brutal heft of truth. 261022 what's it to you? who go blather from