I was girl in the middle last night, walking downtown with two philosophers. It was dusk and swallows flitted between the buildings, no traffic, a black cat crossed our path.

At one point I grabbed both big hands and said hang on and let them swing me from their arms like young children do. Later I got called a monkey. I took it as a compliment.

Being small has its benefits. I can always cajole a piggy-back ride. I can fit inside a suitcase.
It gets me into trouble sometimes.

We went to the Asian bistro on 5th St where the effeminate lazy-handed I-have-good-posture and a pencil-thin zig-zag beard waiter ignored the big hairy apes who accompanied me and kindly told me sorry, pot-stickers are a specialty order now and no we don't make them on Thursday nights.
No pot stickers? At an Asian restaurant? Sounds like suicide. Whatever. Give me some sushi.

I got my Pearl sake fix. S grimaced at his vodka-mix drink called "The Longest Day." B slurped his whiskey sour and got another.

We talked about picnics and revolutions and birds, and the alcohol-tempered conversation devolved into "I saw a big bird one time..."

S trumped us all with his story of life on a big cattle ranch in Montana where his Dad was foreman. When he was eleven and old enough to help his Dad with chores, he went with his Dad to take some dead calves to the dump. There was a pair of golden eagles feasting on the cow they had taken last week. S said the birds were bigger than him, and they fanned out their wings and hissed at him. His Dad told him to stay close.

B joked about how this dead cow and eagle experience has made S so radical in his politics & we all drank to that.

It's raining. Sweet summer rain. Ah, June.