The yellow bird seemed ready to swing from its perch in the painting out into the room. We all sat waiting, watching the bird. Hours went by; the bird had us mesmerized with its colors of vintage 1960s glassware. I’d swear that bird was hovering just above a whirlpool made up of Blenko glass, one of us said. And just behind the paint you do see, we all thought in unison, maybe an old clown painting like the one that was in our family room for so long. And that is definitely a circus tent, or maybe the tent of a faith healer, back on the left and I think I see the tiger’s cage or possibly a portal to another room that seems to be lit through the windows of an old scenic tours bus. Meanwhile the yellow bird seems to be pulsating in and out of this plane, its tail feathers nearly see-through, its wing as thick as a hand. And I think I can discern the pattern to the puffy sleeved dress I made for Home-Ec when I was ten, someone’s sunglasses, a Mexican beach and something over on the right that is so unbearably beautiful, someone from a place I can just barely remember, hanging calmly upside down with her eyes closed reminding me of eighteen glimmering moments from just as many lives.