Ten.Two Thousand, Four Hundred & Eighty-One
TGI-Thursday.
The grasses are getting taller and taller. The poppies still closed. The moon is still big and bright and floating over the Mayacamas.
I check to see how the eggs are arranged today.
The color of the morning light reflecting off the painted pavement. Remember when it was supposed to be temporary?
How I miss our daily chats in his office.
Craving a walk outside in the sun, but not enough time.
No one actually feels like they are winning here, and that’s evident. I ask a maybe too obvious question: “Why exactly are we doing this?”
I hear a thud and see the little finch lying on the ground, stunned, shuddering.
Wine delivery.
Leftovers.
