The storm sends a scuttling beetle up the stairs, and the first firefly of summer meets her there. I'm looking through the ferns and whipping branches of the dogwood into the bent light from cars. There's probably a gunshot, echoing thunder.
I was told to think about what I wanted. I was told I was maybe being rash, but every time i have braved intention to make a list
of
what
i want
from living
No comments:
Post a Comment