To the Nylon Bird who Flies over the "Y"

Dear Nylon Bird who Flies over the "Y,"

I think you're a real bird every time I see you. Every time. Without exception. It's become really annoying.

There are few outcomes more dependable. Whenever I head down that sizeable hill portion of 89A--the one that brings me out of West Sedona and into Sedona proper--singing to the radio, making unsafe lane changes and no doubt flicking off the tourists traveling at ten miles below the posted speed limit--always in Subaru Outbacks (weird)--I go through the first roundabout, make my way to the second and say to myself aloud and giddily: "E., look! There's a bird! Wait, no...dammit!" Every time. Never see it coming. You dupe me every time, and I slap myself on the forehead.

I guess I don't know what I'm asking for, here. You're made of nylon. It's not like you have a brain or a soul I can penetrate and bend to my will with my pleas. You're inanimate.

Still, each time you dupe me, I consider vandalism and theft. I want to climb that pole you fly from and steal you and cage you in my bedroom where you'll never again be able to dupe an unsuspecting motorist with your avian machinations. You're lucky I don't steal. Bad karma. That, and the only Pole I was ever good at climbing moved back to Warsaw and got married on me.

I guess all I can do is post this and tell you that you're a duplicitous trickster and an all around mean nylon bird.

Till tomorrow,
E.