Blindspot.
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Despite the fact that most of the people who read this blog know me, I tend
to treat it as an anonymous airing of the soul. I pretend that people who
kn...
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Sunday Afternoon
Sitting on the back deck, Mother's Day, heavy wind has dislodged and claimed three baby birds, rolling fodder for our Golden Retriever.
Anna wanders the back yard clipping random branches, compiling a nest of sorts of her own. She's barefoot in cold grass with kinetic hair reflecting a dancing mind in motion. She skips by, reads what I am writing, smiles, and is off.
The wind is central, primary, pervasive. Last night it was a loud lullaby laughing through open windows. Today it flung sailboats along the river and applauded our sea glass hunt along the beach.
Sometimes when time presents itself, I'm not sure whether to read, to write or just be still.
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