April rain reminiscent of snow. You don't have to judge anything, yet on Spring evening as the sickle moon seems to cling to the budding maples, you might as well. The next morning, two of those judged see you at the store, later opening your mail. There are useful codes, and nobody needs to be a snob about that.
Outside, Steve's truck parked halfway up the embankment. Cellular antennae pointed down. Jeremiah standing in the hall earlier, legs crossed, leaning his head on the wall, crying quietly. "I don't want you to go." Thank Christ for journals.
There are sixty-eight flowers out front - daffodils and crocuses. A worm of apparently legendary proportions was unearthed yesterday, so large nobody could bring themselves to toss it to the ducks. Also bees. Question: do bees migrate. Answer: either that or they hibernate. How many answers are simply questions all over again.
Four down, one to go. Off the hill the rain doesn't fall as hard, but there's more traffic, the wheels hissing on the slick road. I wanted to ask Vati about ghosts but didn't. You reach an age where who cares about epiphanies. Yet in the wash of light coming from the Tanner's barn last night, maybe two a.m., I did have one. And I liked it, too.
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