19 June 2016


Birds call, trill, sing out, and thunder rumbles as like its own atonal base coda. Now I cannot name the birds that I hear, they just are and yet I am made real by their song.
I see green leaves and I see packed brown trail dirt, beaten down, and I see the oak with its vertical rutted grey bark. The oak feels solid, looks rooted, not a flimsy sensation within it from it, its own mountain unto itself yet could be without the bird trills and brown dirt.
The air now is thick; humidity blanketing green leaves the grey bark and the tramped trail dirt. The air tastes as a soup with too much starch, or too little broth, heavy and hot with wee breezes slicing through. The broth is too thick for a taste of any sort, of taste absent spice, tang, or sweet. A taste only heavy a cloying scarce taste with too over baked and dry even 80% dark cacao cannot pierce.
Only the bird song feels bright, light & happy, painted with a thunder underscoring it all.

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