A round

My camera has been gathering dust lately.

The battery needed a charge.

I guess I needed a charge.

Other things have been far more—well, life—absorbing.

And then I'll find a moment.

Do up a quick batch of dough.

Let it rest and then with strange precision create a round.

Almost perfect.

Such is life.

But the oven is finicky.

It heats up unevenly.

The door roars like an injured elephant.

It's really quite lovely.

So I bake the round just enough.

Nice and brown on the bottom—cooked, but looking totally raw on top.

Oh well.

We tear at it.

Unevenly torn, we eat it.

It cracks in our mouths with bursts of basil, oregano, salt, parmesan.

We drink our red wine while time slips by.

It slips so nicely at times.

And, at times, it's "for the birds".