If there is a spirit world, why not this one?
Late yesterday evening, the crows half-flew, half-drifted every which way on the southwest breeze, which was strong enough to make their frequent treetop landings a challenge. This one? No, this one! Here? No, over there! Haw! — and yet the grand and glorious silence was never broken.
The clover was drunk on sunlight. Now it’s snoring in the dark.
And the bumblebee’s snug in a flower.
A night in bed, however brief, seems the silliest thing. As if sleep were needed to dream.
As if the sail of the ship isn’t silk, and skin isn’t cream.
August 5, 2019