I took advantage of my vantage point, or, rather, it advanced upon me when I was at a disadvantage and shoved me right into what I was peering down upon with creaky trepidation.
Only I opened my wings at the last minute so as not to faceplant into the shitpile I'd been creating from above and as such, so below, and managed a closer look. Not such a big deal. Shit fertilizes, you know. Makes things grow. If I stop fussing and freaking over this shitpile it may even turn into something pretty, like a thorny red rose or a tree worth pining over. Something pokey to tear into the embryonic sac of my serenely solitary life.
Back on my perch, the shitpile looks more like a shy smile, like pupils that catch themselves dilating and look away--quick!--only to reveal themselves in the escape.
A harmless game.
Eat from my hand and catch me if you can.
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