There's a five pound bag of peanuts above the kitchen cabinets in my apartment. It is perched up there. Like a fat, earthy, wombat. The bag longs to take flight--to leap from the ledge and soar on an updraft. Plastic packaging will catch the currents and hum along a cushion of air out the door and into the Great Wide Open Spaces.
The bag of peanuts will hang on powerlines and tempt unsuspecting squirrels. When the squirrels have gotten too close to escape they will be body-slammed and crash on to the roof of a car pulling into a busy intersection. The metal roof will dent and crumple a little. The car stops. The driver gets out and sees a squirrel frantically fighting the unseen force pulling the squirrel into the center of the bag. Everyone in the intersection will stare.
A meandering thought caught in a grate, a drain, a cattle-catcher, rustling and out-of-place. Wonderfully out-of-place.
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