‘swarm.

The temperature of the bath mom drew when I was a kid always seemed somewhat like the song of a Field Sparrow — first boldly wrong, then overcorrected, then overcorrected, then overcorrected, then overcorrected, finally converging with minuscule tweaks of the H and C knobs on some ethereal point of Just Right.

How’s that, baby?

That’s hot.

How’s that?

It’s cold.

How bout now?

‘s hot.

Okay, now?

‘s chilly.

What about this?

‘swarm.

Warm is good.

‘stoowarm.

…Okay, now?

‘scool.

Cool is fine.

‘stoocoo.

‘swarm.

Too warm?

No. ‘sgood.

The song of the Field Sparrow is commonly described this way: like dropping a basketball from a moderate height, it first makes a grand gesture of bouncing, but the next bounce is a little more modest, and the next is downright meek, and then it’s down by your ankles, really just vibrating against the floor until it converges on the ‘sgood of stillness.

 

via Daily Prompt: Swarm