Every day between 6 and 7 p.m., birds fill the sky outside my windows and fly in great arcs, following the curvature of the earth. They fly in flocks large and small, starting somewhere beyond Chinatown and announcing in cries and shrieks that they are rocketing through the air. It’s impossible for me not to pay attention to them. There’s a short video clip of them at my blog (be sure to click on the full-size icon).
One evening, a flock flew right up to my building and scattered at the last instant. I was very surprised, seeing birds dart to the left and right of my window. Surely this was a mistake in their navigation. Though I have watched for this mistake to happen again, it hasn’t.
Unlike the birds that usually fill the evening sky, the appearance of Vice-Versa is highly unpredictable. But thanks to the efforts of many, we have content for September 2023: poems of philosophy, essays about hunting and manliness, a tale about a boy named Oscar and his eye medicine, detective sci-fi, surrealism and a father’s abuse, autobiographical writing, musings, loving tributes, ties to the soil, contemplations in photographic form, and what has to be the most macaque-inspired art created on the planet. To every contributor—and to our esteemed guest editors—I give my thanks for infusing this edition of Vice-Versa with your spirit.
Warmly,
Pat