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We were lost on the same road for an hour.

Twist off white wine between my feet, warm. I had picked it off the shelf because of the yellow bird but told everyone else my money was being donated to an endangered bird -- the yellow one on the bottle. It lived in New Zealand, but maybe by the time the grapes plucked, the wine made, the travel around the world and the stock boy has no taste for it was on sale, I always wonder where my money is going.

So we finally found our way. Friends built a tiny-home next to 18 chickens and a duck. Warm white wine without glasses between two laughter after laughter. The sunset anyway (it always does). But not yet enough before the politics of the bird: its lacking flight, its unknown night. 

[Image: Bene Rohlmann]