If I Were To Write A Piece Of Flash Fiction About Knitting A Kimono For A Bird,

I would begin from the success and end with the girlfriend appearing behind the shoulder, reading the title of the piece, and taking a moment to work her way through her confusion. I would keep an eye on the starling as it made its way through the grass with legs set to a certain kind of VHS fast-forward and make sure that it wasn’t too cold; that it stayed dry; that it wasn’t too encumbered with the ornamentation; that it could look on dogs and cats wearing sweaters or coats with good humor; and that it could land on top of a fence and observe two elderly, overweight women from New Jersey smoking their way through a pack of cigarettes on a slowly bouncing trampoline with no swimming pool in sight. (“Wait — ”)