The grass behind the house is on the wild side. Shaded most of the day, it stays green if left alone. No mowing, no water. Churchyard grass. Perfect for imagined goats.
Pick things up, then set them down again. Sticks, leaves, stones. Rainbows. Poems. The days and nights themselves.
A swarm of bushtits in the cedar. Some are upside down. What’s the world to them? Outside in. Inside out.
The plural I. The singular we. The multitudinous, nonexistent you.
Anything can be a drug, a superstition, a religion; even, perhaps especially, that reflection in the mirror.
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Categories: A Few More Scratches