My son is late to school again, but
he’s got his homework done. Driving
back, I see the brown duck stretching
her neck, cooling her feet at the edge
of a man-made waterfall. A driverless
white BMW sits in front of my parking space,
but I’ve learned to squeeze not scratch.
The gulls cry out a warning when
the seagull nest-capturer pulled up in his tiny
white van. He’s not surprised the birds
recognize him. “It must be these blue clothes,”
he tells me. The ladder my husband borrowed
from the community shed rests against
yellow apartment brick, where the man leaves
it after cleaning bird turd from the skylight.
Gulls simply press concave spots in the roof
grass or stones to lay their brown speckled eggs,
he tells me. I think of them posting guard from the bathroom
skylight while I develop digital photos for the school
yearbook. He used a word I refuse to use when
he said, “How much shit is there?” What better word
can a native Swede use? Some days are like that.