The crow is in his
morning tree. Of what, his lovely reach?
When a friend says "So what?" I know I'm close to something and should pursue it. I think it means it's local, fresh, untested, and I should take a closer look.
Everything I write has "So what?" about it. Everything I value is "So what?" Let me love that which goes unnoticed and unattended. There is value in everything, in every damn thing. It's just a matter of finding it and holding it up to the light.
It is a grey sky, this morning, yet it doesn't weigh heavy on us. The hmmmm of planes leaving the EAA in Oshkosh fills the sky, an emptiness, then the full roar of another plane overhead. These are folks who have a passion. We should all have passions, yet so few of us do. So many of us just roll like a few marbles in a box in the trunk of a car headed west on the gravel road to nowhere. If you don't take hold of your life and own it, you will surely be unhappy. I am responsible for every one of my failures, and I want to be responsible for them. If one doesn't accept that proposition, he can have nothing.
In some places the blue sky breaks through. It is a fresh morning, yet there is not much of a breeze blowing. North of the village, a swallow plays above the road here, six crows there.
There is nothing I do not want. There is nothing I want. It's a lovely road I'm on.
It is a fat and luscious summer, ripe with the smell of pea vines rotting in the field and a skunk dead along the road and the corn tasselled out.
At Five Corners, somehow the flowers, somewhere the day, somewhat the morning song.
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