I received his letters in the mail twice a week.
I’m a regular gumshoe.
You arrive at your destination after much wait and hours of travel, are psyched to explore, and then this happens. Gummed!
Wait a minute, how’d that ketchup sneak in there? The mustard-to-dog ratio is waaay off, I’m tellin’ ya.
On another note, has spilled blue paint ever looked lovelier?
Not a theatre in sight.
Spilt popcorn, say it ain’t so! At least most of it reached its destination: my mouth.
All that’s missin’ is a three-legged dog.
Small town America, big time rodeo. A little yee ‘n’ haw and a heckuva lot a red, white ‘n’ blue!
At one point, I looked up to find those sitting nearest me turning to stare, and after a brief moment of bewilderment, found that a clown had cozied up alongside me. Well, howdy do!
Poor chicken. Presumably died alone and unknown after the other chickens were moved on to a new home. Definitely best to count your chickens after they’ve hatched.
On the fence.
In the green.
I miss the simplicity of Washington state license plates in times past. Apparently, this fine tree does, too.
” A Dream of Trees.”
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
-Mary Oliver ♦