She passes an old fortress, off of Riverside Drive.  She heard somewhere that Mike Tyson used to own it.  Or was it that other thug, DeSantis?  Who knows!?  Thugs own every plot in this doggone town.

She knows this: there’s too much male aggression and hostility in the world.  Too much chest beating, too many genital metrics contests.  She understands that it’s bound to happen when a body gets stuck on the ground for too long and loses touch with the vastness of the sky.  Her wings are old wings and, despite all the flopping and turbulence, can still carry her.  Praise Tweety.

What the world needs now is luv sweet luv.

She knows in her bird heart of hearts that her mission is to spread love and knowledge.  To educate with firm kindness.  To sing Tweety’s message of faith that times will get better even though they never do.

“While I am not (nor have I ever been) a white dove, I can certainly take the white dove’s torch.  Or candle.  Wait… it’s not that… it’s got to be some kind of flower.  An olive branch!  My goodness!  YES!  By my crinkled cloaca, a torch or candle would singe a lovely, innocent creature’s plumage down to blackened nubs!  Exactly like what happened to me, so long ago.  So olive branch it is!”

She extends olive branches.

Some are hostile to it.

Some come with VERY open arms.

Sometimes people simply apply their own TV wisdom.

 

Maybe her seeds will find purchase some day.   By the divine purity and martyrdom of Tweety, there she flies.  And fly she will.  Unless she’s walking.  And while she can’t give the world everything, she doggone-well tries.