A murder of crows flew over hundreds of them, each as dark as night, wings wildly flapping
CAW-CAW-CAW-ing from the painted and falling dusk sky, high-up overhead
There we stood, feet planted, necks stiff from watching the sheer lot of them pass by on their way to another world
If you grew-up near the water, it doesn’t matter where you are – when you see it again, it beckons you closer, daring you to its rocky edge, tempting you to take off your shoes and test its temperature with the tips of your french manicured, but otherwise bare toes. It’s all you can do not to stay and frolic there awhile, where you can conjure up your days of youth, and make architectural plans in your head. In that setting your mind becomes a drafting table. What would it look like if you could build a home in that very same spot?
writer, author, poet, photographer and dreamer.
A bit of budding summer in my garden.