All the Dancing Birds Read Online Free PDF Page A

whistle over a lively little dog. The kitchen is silent except for the gurgling of the coffeemaker. At last, I decide I like the familiar hug of the sun as it slides through the kitchen curtains to wrap itself around my shoulders.
    Good old sun.
    I drink a second cup of coffee while I make a scrambled egg and a piece of toast, which I accidentally burn because I can no longer figure out the workings of a toaster I’ve known for five years.
    After breakfast, I change from my pajamas to a pair of khaki slacks and a yellow shirt. The shirt is long and bright and fluttery like a flag on a breezy day. It’s my favorite because of its cheerfulness and the indulgent way I feel when I slide my arms into its crisp sleeves the color of a canary’s wings.
    It’s my lucky shirt!
    The lucky shirt does the trick. My day carries on and I carry on, and at last, happiness is wrapped about my body like a bright yellow banner flowing into the day.
    I smile and people smile in return, which is amazing, especially walking through the grocery store, as I do now. Most people stay set to their business in the store, pushing carts and pulling items from the shelf, stopping to read the label, or placing the item directly in their cart before they push on ahead to their next stop. Today, however, in spite of everyone’s bustle, people smile at me as if I’m altogether acceptable.
    I smile back.
    I know it must be my brilliant yellow shirt that causes them to look up from their grocery lists and their hurried feet in time to notice me.
    To smile.
    I love the grocery store, with its scents and colors and especially its freezer aisle that cools me to my bone. I read my shopping list and gather things into my basket.
    In the produce department, I pick out a bunch of slender asparagus, a head of romaine, some Roma tomatoes, and a couple of sturdy cucumbers. Then along the meat aisle, I browse until I find two little lamb chops that won’t ruin my budget. I use my list carefully, but still extra items appear in my cart: a bag of chips and a bottle of chocolate sauce, a four-pack of yellow bug lights, a little travel packet of assorted threads and needles. I don’t need these items, but they catch my eye and I’m powerless to resist.
    By the time I reach the checkout counter, I’ve circled the store several times. My basket is filled with boxes and cans, three bunches of bananas, a bag of blood oranges, clumps of organic broccoli rubber banded together like a bride’s bouquet, several chuck roasts and two large packages of frozen chicken tenders, bags and bags of pinto beans and four, maybe five packages of angel hair pasta. There are three tall, white pillar candles I’m sure I’ll use someday, a red plastic spatula because I can’t remember if I have a spatula at home and certainly I might need one of those, three bottles of my favorite shampoo because I don’t want to run out, two or maybe four air fresheners, five bottles of Ménage à Trois red table wine, and a large box of biscuits for the neighbor’s dog.
    My small list is gone, fluttered from my fingers somewhere along the way, and without its guidance, I find myself now with a basket brimming with variety and color, shapes and textures. Just before selecting a checkout lane, I toss in a fresh bouquet of red and white spider chrysanthemums. My basket is magnificently filled and I’m dazed with all I’ve done.
    The checkout girl smiles at me; I beam back at her.
    We’re both wearing yellow, which makes my lips pull into a wide display of happiness for us both.
    We are happy in yellow.
    She runs my items through the scanner while we chat about the weather and how she’s hoping to get off work early today. As we talk, she passes item after item through her agile hands. A young man with long wisps of blonde hair floating just over his upper lip loads my things into bag after bag. He smiles and chats along with us. All around are the high-pitched beeps of electronic scanners and the