I was central. Puttering in the garage one comes upon a shovel from World War II. Time is a donut!
One sweats as they write it. Crab apples falling early. The neighbors yelling at each other after midnight, too.
Perhaps the heat? Awareness edges out ahead of thought and one realizes the space in which thought is. Yes, we can still get there together.
Clarity is not the opposite of obfuscation. Somewhere, the hill remains. In the distance, mourning doves.
The same story about bears, told and retold for no apparent reason. I requires a narrative. I am sleeping on the floor again.
One rarely sets out to be prodigal but it's not the worst goal. Can you hear me? I don't appreciate being referred to as anybody's beloved.
And yet, one keeps on keeping on. The leaves on the squash plant wither while thunderheads hem a couple counties over.
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