After the rain - how one waits on Mariah - fantails fill the sky. You are not who you think you are, nor who I think you are, and the whole thing - literally - is a fiction. There is no us! Ha ha!
Old Honolulu, San Francisco, Ashtabula. I have walked a thousand times a thousand times on roads beside which Queen Anne's Lace grows, tangled up with purple clover. Near the old maple stump raspberries emerge like small green stars and I stop to admire them. Bears sniff the wild blueberry bushes and I stop to admire them too.
Oh, the loveliness is sometimes too much. I can't decide what's more amazing: bluets or Fur Elise. Wind moves in the pine trees and takes with it my sadness, at least for now. The blanket reeks of horse but that's how I like it.
At night, covered with fireflies, I laugh and my laughter floats up into the stars. Leave me alone, won't you? One looks for toads by the back fence, as if in search of some vital confirmation. Times passes, or seems to.
I haven't slept well for maybe a thousand years. Resistance is a form of love, but we tend to miss that. The chickens greet me before the sun rises. Studying the remains of last night's fire I think how much can be written with ash.