Thursday, May 26, 2022
Birds sing in waves the same way the breeze moves the flowers. The air is alive. Bees ring a rhododendron. There’s an alligator flopped in the path. I’m pretending it isn’t a broken log. I’m pretending the world in the woods on Sehome Hill is a dream. A junco comes to visit where I sit and whispers, then it laughs and flies away.
Posted by allen frost at 1:17 PM