Blood to the Toes
The sunflowers aren’t quite to the skeletal stage, but with the frost upon them, their flesh is rapidly melting away. The birds still come, the scrub jays, nuthatches, and finches. It’s a talkative town, but in stark, fleet moments there’s a blackening sense of the approaching end of conversation, and of new beginnings that must wait their turn in the ground. . If I’m discovered to be mad, what of […]
William Michaelian 