What’s up, .doc?

It’s another new .doc 

I have no template and I am not sure what to make of these letters, these words; not sure at all.

I let some fly and some are taken, but most of them are brought to me. Most of them are brought to me and I must pass them on.

They come on a breeze—always have—in rushing water too. Of course a song bird sings the dawn; the same one calls the tune at night. 

Outside is the sound of a hammer, perhaps on a roof. Almost certainly on a roof as I see trucks and loads of shingles and evidence, now, that they have been here for weeks. They are almost done with the entire large project and some of the words are nailed down while others will go home with the workmen (I see no women up there, right now) and become part of a family dinner. Or a mirror in a bar. 

Some of those words will come back tomorrow and now that I think about it the workers have been here for weeks and they used to have a radio with some roof music blasting, but I imagine that a neighbor complained and that they pay HOA fees so there are no words coming, now, by radio.

There were many words on my patio earlier. I had put some of them into an email to my apartment office asking for the patio outlet to be repaired and the words came back with the repairman. There are no repairwomen here. There are two head cleaning women and a couple more of those. There is a woman at the top of the whole deal and I copy her sometimes on important matters. There are two office women and they are very helpful. All of the repair people are men.

It’s suddenly very late in the day and it is almost tomorrow.

The words that are here with me now are coming again by radio, not from the rooftops but from a wall. Music, especially at night, brings so many lovely words . . .