At the airport, I discovered a Great Blue Heron located near a couple of spilled chili fries near the Level 2 cafe, where my lover had left me. I had a four-hour wait at the airport before boarding. The heron looked like it was lost. At first, my lover had said he would stay until the flight left, that we would have plenty of time to talk about the future and enjoy a meal. But his ex was in the hospital again, and this time it was even more serious. "She never stops pulling the martyr routine, don't you agree?" I asked the tall, meandering bird. It was shallow, eager for something. The airport hummed, I got hot flashes. After a five-day test, it made everything strange. I told the bird that one day I would be kissed at an airport, all the way until my flight took flight.

There are no signs of extra-terrestrial life: Only two itchy dogs in the garden. One dog carries a blanket, lies down on it. Ma is sure she saw a spaceship float down into the neglected orchard after martinis last night. I'm on security patrol. My branch of the oak will be comfortable to sit with a pomegranate and an orange. Carrying them in my pockets up to the lookout, scouting for aliens in the leaves. We'll move as the rent increases, but for now; sour wood sorrel invades our grass, fleas terrorize the dogs, Ma stays in, and I imagine this house belonging to creatures who know what to do about life here on Earth.