Old Lang Sign

They’ll play that damn song I can’t spell to signal the year is over. 

As if that’s going to power wash away the resentment I’ve splattered on the siding of my house all year. 

Well-wishers are pigeons and chickens, fighting to claim scraps. Squawking and warbling encouragement to me as they pass by, honking their horns as I grab another handful of resentment and let it fly true.

I’m tempted to scream their noises back at them-loud voice, unblinking eyes. I’m not trying to make a scene, though. No, I’m working on a monument. 

A monument that says, “Right now is actually the best it’s going to be.” 

The birds will say, “it’s a reset.” Also, “chirp, yodelolodoodleadaddaday”

The monument responds, “the turning of the calendar is not a reset.”

The birds will say, “arroookacoo” and extend their streamers and drink sparkling cider in celebration. Tut-tutting away from the monument.

I will stand next to my work. We will own the message and the intent. And, despite the chirps, we know that one of us is telling the truth.