A Small Bird the Size of a Finch

               I need to submit a piece for a blog, for a class.  I figured I’d start early.  Maybe get something decent, maybe something good, and maybe post it by the weekend.  I figure that for a lot of assignments, and for the most part, it never happens.  It’s early in the morning and I've eaten pancakes, pancakes with pecans and banana slices, and scrambled eggs on the side, slightly under-cooked so not to be firm.  I’m out of coffee because I never want to buy coffee when I’m already spending too much on two or more cups of coffee a day and a bag of beans always seems too expensive up front.  I have my laptop packed in my messenger bag and I’m heading to a cafe. 

                Inside, the place is dim and smells of coffee as if the wooden tables were damp and absorbed all the scent.  The curtains are pulled till only a few slits of sunlight come in, and half of my coffee, a Kenyan pour-over, is gone.  I’m feeling good and open my notebook.  My pen is sitting there, nothing is written, and I’m four texts and a call into a conversation where a buddy just found out where I am.  Now he’s across from me talking about life and its entire consuming void of nonsense and my notebook sits untouched.

                After he bum rushed out of the place realizing he missed half of a class, I figured I’d go skate since I had nothing to write anyways.  I’d go skate and flush out my mind and come back to it all.  This is all a bad idea when you’re having surgery in three weeks because of skateboarding related shoulder injuries.  But what the heck, when in Rome, when in Tucson, when you have jack to write, do as you do.  After a few falls and slides along dusty concrete, I smell like dirt and look dusty, but I’m feeling good and I hit another cafe.

                The sun is warm through the leaves and the shade brings out the pink of small flowers by my side.  A crowned iron fence wrapped with vines runs along the small trees that arch over my table and I’m halfway through yet another coffee, an Ethiopian pour-over, and I’m feeling good.  I’m feeling inspired and damn, I feel that I’m really going to write something good and my class will read it and tell me “Yeah, your style, yeah, your style, your style!”  A small bird the size of a finch is pecking along the crack of the tiled stone.  Another crosses and ducks under a table through the corner of my eye and looks like a crusted leaf blown by the breeze.  I don’t know my bird types.  My notebook is empty and my stomach too feels empty from the coffee burning down there with no food to absorb it.  A yellow leaf just fell on the table and it’s there, right in the center, completely still. 

                Screw it, coffee doesn't always do it.  Sometimes you need a beer, maybe two or three beers.  I’m now three beers in and instead of looking at my notebook I’m looking down at my buddy on the ground and I’m all the way up a flag pole.  I’m not any closer to writing something decent, something good, but I feel good and I’m inspired by feeling good and I’m thinking that I’ll write something decent, something good when I get off this damn flag pole. 

                Its midnight now and I still feel good and I’m at my notebook.  I’m writing now and now I’m here where everything is written that’s been written.  I had writers block three times, or was it four times up until now so I figured it’s about that time to just write about writer’s block.  I’m feeling pretty good and I’ll let this all sit because I need to submit a piece, for a blog, for a class.