Trying to reawaken the writer within me is like dragging it from a deep slumber; it is lying in a shallow grave begging to be exhumed.
Thundering hooves and pounding hearts. Oh, to be alive and free and flying.
I hear the rabble of angry lawn mowers in the distance and wonder if the smell of freshly mowed grass are screams of agony and suffering.
The sun sets earlier up on the Hill. I love how it changes the sky from blue to pink, yellow, and orange. It makes me think of cotton candy. I wonder if they taste the same.
The sweet sound of songbirds is so light and fragile. Their feathers whisper as they shuffle on branches; it is a happy sound. I think of their hearts patterning against the palm of my hand after a hard flight. How much work it is, just to stay alive, I think.
The small wild flowers, petals soft and gentle in your grasp. Their vibrancy has already begun to fade against the approaching threat of winter. They are exhausted; ready for the quiet lull of winter’s slumber.