as i write, on the other channel i hear the birds around the eagles nest in decorah, IA. all three eggs have pipped, 3 pips like gladys knight, and the nest is full of squirrels and trout.
and it is good, mom, it's top of the world. i imagine my squirrel,  who glares at me through my kitchen window lying there peacefully in the eagles nest, turning bite by bite into new air-filled bones and down and feathers and finally, flight. and it is good, said dug. then a rank commercial for cancer comes over my beloved nest! and i shut the foul thing off! then i think i'm leavin' on a midnight train to georgia and i'd rather live in his world than live without him in mine, and i think, oncet i'm there, of powerful sorrowful james brown 
and how nobody expected him, and least of all to die. and then i think back in a soft loop on the eagles and how they eggs used to be so thin from pesticides they couldn't come to life, and poor j.b. the godfather of soul, hooked on pcp. and at last i think god it is fridy, and i'm goin' home to see my baby. and somewhere, in all the fragmented world, perhaps everywhere, all at once, there's a story being told.