redolent ovenbird An old lawn chair with plastic slats that squeak and leave red lashes on the backs of your sweaty thighs when summer is a lover that lies about forever. Night is falling. Dew gathers along the leafy projections of your shoulderblades and a smell like laundry forgotten in the washer rises from the damp earth. You wait. For what you cannot say. You only know that you are looking for the thing that will change everything, the thing that carries a dangerous freedom in its teeth. You feel the skunk before you see it–a stern stripe following the last of the sun as it slides over the grass. It passes so close you could gather the musky stench of it in a bottle and dab it on your wrists like a perfume against desire, but you hold still while the cold pools in your molars. The day is gone and so is another. Only the smell of living lingers: loam and leavening, fear and ferment, stagnant water and the caramel trace of kisses gone cold so not even a scenthound could track them. 260930 ... epitome of incomprehensibility I love the sound of this word - and how you (ovenbird) capture the feeling of it in rich sensory detail. 260930 ... ovenbird (Thank you so much e_o_i!) 260930 what's it to you? who go blather from