A week of flatpack furniture assembly.
Crows swooping close.
A habanero plant with slugs on every chili pepper.
Rain, but then sun.
Odin walks past the bench. He walks in the direction of the lottery ticket shop, in the direction of the bakery, but then circles back to the office, crossing gliding crow trajectories, because he feels neither hungry nor lucky.
When did newspapers change their slogan from “All the news that’s fit to print” to “Be very afraid”?
Odin wishes he could have thoughts more complicated and clever than “the universe is heaven, except when we make it hell”.
Maybe a more clever thought will come along soon.
Any time now, maybe.
In his office, which he shares with a dozen people because of rennovation work on his regular office, they have put the radio right behind Odin, and it plays 90s’ classics all the live-long day.
Some of the songs are okay. Most are not.
This can be said of most eras.
Odin makes a deal with a crow. They trade bodies and Odin flies around.
Odin swoops down the street past a police officer with a machine gun guarding a sensitive embassy.
He flies over red urban rooftops and marvels at the ivy turning red and the distant mountains and bodies of water glistening in the sunlight.
He marvels at the sound of wind in his feathers.
He flies back and trades back for his old body.
People come around the corner with rakes and pitchforks.
A woman points at him and shouts, “There he is! Get him!”
Odin wonders what the crow did while they were trading bodies.
What crows dream of, I guess.