Imagine a race of beings so in love with themselves, so jaded, so steeped in their bitterness, that they choose daily to revel in their own righteous filth. Impossible, of course.
Yellowed cottonwood leaves on the trail. The trees shudder to think.
Gray skies all day without a hint of blue, the smoke pushed east again for a time.
Broken green husks of walnuts on the steps. Squirrels, or birds?
A spider crawls across the foot of the man with the hose, then pauses atop the biggest toe, a place too warm and too low to be Mt. Shasta.
Anger is a way of life. So is love.
September 10, 2021. Afternoon.
[ 1225 ]
Categories: New Poems & Pieces