This morning I let out the chickens. We usually spend time together before the heat finds its way over the horizon, they on their eternal bug hunt and me sewing or writing a few lines. Today they wandered as far as the back porch, and I cozied into one of the deck chairs left from my mother. I know she smiles when we sit in those chairs.

One of the chickens, Black Raz, was curious about a round brown thing, and I noticed that it was too perfectly round to be a worm. I got closer and realized it was a forgotten hair band, tossed when a child was flinging herself on the tire swing. At first I assumed Black Raspberry would know it was not yummy and discard it for better fare. But he didn't. I went after him and he let go of the unsatisfying band, which I confiscated.

I remembered a disturbing picture I saw of dead birds whose bellies are bulging with shredded plastic, broken glass and bottle caps. They were on Midway Island, and had perished simply from eating the bright bits they found on their travels. Heartbreaking, that our fetish for disposables has had such disastrous repercussions for wildlife. The birds had no interest in an early demise. They simply ate what was in front of them and looked interesting.

There was an article in the Times that makes me want to cry. It is about the hook up culture on campuses, where women as well as men eschew relationships for meaningless sex. Alcohol is a big part of it. I weep for the people who have been fed a steady diet of messages that glorify sex and mitigate commitment. With a heart full of broken promises and bits of plastic connections, it is hard to sustain a marriage capable of flying.