by Paul Hawkins
*
Sprung from jail in the 1990’s, and now with a purpose in life to pump gas and guard the Sinclair dinosaur, Blaise enjoyed the late afternoon by sitting in a ripped-webbed lawnchair outside the filling station and watching a mockingbird that would perch on the dinosaur's head, flit his tail agitatedly, then fly off. At twilight Blaise and Dale, the ancient fur-trader's descendant, would see him perch on the dinosaur's head or tail, sawing love-filled and agitatedly through every call he knew, then pause and with one final chirp POP! into the air with a flutter of white-showing wing and tail, before either settling back on his perch to run through another set, or else lofting from the dinosaur to dive bomb a rival in the nearby acacia or else to amorously relocate his mate in his own gruff voice. He carried this on until dusk, and when he was done Blaise would close up shop, say so long to Dale, and step out into the wide, cool evening. The swollen orange sun would ignite brief, brilliant colors upon the scrub-strewn lawn at the afternoon's last moment. Then the mockingbird would reappear and POP! right into the fiery orange ball itself, and it would set, and pink and purple would wash all other colors gently and relentlessly, sweetening the atmosphere by half-tones until the first pale stars arrived.
“You chased them Eurotrash off yet?” Dale asked Blaise.
“Almost.”
He sighed. “Blaise…”
“I’ll git to it.”
“Git to it or I will.”
The mockingbird snapped his tail angrily at both of them from his perch atop the dopey dinosaur's head.
''I wonder if I can make him glow in the dark?” Blaise wondered, thinking of the dinosaur.