When a traffic light is blinking, it means be careful. When the clock is blinking, it means the time it shows is incorrect. When the answering machine is blinking, it means there’s a message. I wake sometimes & struggle to remember where I am: rapid blinking usually brings it back. It’s easy to forget there’s a mountain under me—a low one, to be sure, but one that stretches all the way to Georgia, its name changing every 25 miles.

How many times a minute does a hummingbird blink? I watch one hover over the red porch floor made glossy by wind-blown rain. A catbird on a dead limb tilts its head to eye the clouds. Soon enough, they’ll both be gone. The mountain, on the other hand, barely moves, like a snake that has just swallowed something huge & toothy. I wake sometimes at four in the morning & go outside to listen, just in case.

In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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