Maggie stapled the last piece of corrugated plastic to her backyard masterpiece, a birdhouse shaped like a giant cheese wedge. ‘It’s a *functional* art installation,’ she insisted to the squirrel gnawing on her ankle. The structure wobbled, its roof made of recycled CD-ROMs, and emitted a faint scent of burnt popcorn from the embedded projector. Next door, Mr. Pritchard leaned over the fence, squinting. ‘That’s not a birdhouse, it’s a spaceship for sentient snacks.’ Maggie ignored him, adjusting the wind chimes—actually rewired bicycle bells—until they clanged in a dissonant rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’ A trio of starlings swooped in, circled the cheese wedge, and deposited a single feather. ‘See?’ Maggie whispered. ‘They’re *into* it.’ Mr. Pritchard hurled a garden gnome at the structure. It lodged in the CD roof, triggering a cascade of bells, confetti cannons (filled with dried beans), and a fog machine belching lavender-scented mist. The birds fled. The neighbors arrived. By sunset, the cheese wedge had become a local attraction, its ‘interactive experience’ drawing a line of toddlers armed with squishy balls. Maggie, now wearing a hat made of duct tape and egg cartons, accepted a donation of $3.75 in quarters. ‘Next year,’ she muttered, ‘I’m making a toaster.’
