Sorry for the hiatus, I haven't felt like writing anything all week. I'm sick of politics, I'm not in the mood to argue my beliefs, and the Pistons are still bad. Anyway, Edgar Allen Poe wrote a famous poem titled "The Raven". Here is an excerpt from the last verse.
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!
Why do I bring up such a poem? Well, on Tuesday, my home in Mt. Clemens was struck with a similar situation. No, not a Raven was perched upon our bust of Pallas, but rather a blackbird perched upon our stove of Kenmore. Yes, a live bird managed to get into my house while my family was away. No, the doors and windows were not opened. We have no holes in our roof, walls, or floor. The bird either is a locksmith in his spare time, or he got in through a vent. But what about my ferocious cat? Well, our fearless feline was calmly sitting on the couch in what appeared to be a war zone. It appears as if an epic battle took place in the house, most likely ending in a draw. Decor was strewn about the house, an apple was eaten, and poop lay fixed to the walls. I am 200 miles away from the situation, so the details remain fuzzy, such as how the bird got out, where is his carcass, and how much poop landed on my bed, but I do know that the situation has been neutralized and lysolized. We may never know what transpired between the blackbird and Murphy on that fateful Tuesday, but we can be certain the conflict will remain etched in the minds of all (me) who sleep in that house and wonder where the poop fell.