We have hung the cuckoo clock and it feels like home now.
The tinny chirp of the white bird chimes the hour, but when the government decides what time it really is, there’s no need to heed the man made song. So, we stay up and it’s later than we think.
I eat a brownie and it’s dark outside, and we have no curtains in the room. The real night mingles with the false bird and the deceptive clocks. The tension between man made and God made blends with the banjo picking music I listen to in the background, and I daydream in the night time.
I’m doing nothing really, sitting in my uncomfortable wicker chair. I bask and let my batteries recharge. It’s a night where an hour is lost, so I may as well enjoy my minute while baby faced boys sleep and brownies abound.
There is a certain freedom in recognizing that the clock is wrong, that time is more flexible than one might suppose.