parked atop a fresh mound of redwood chips, breathe in the gathering scent (cough, cough the air is heavy with smoke from grassfires east of here) homemade sandwhich in hand, work day complete, I am in a favorite spot.

Ding! Dong! Colborn gets up walking slowly to the front door"Of course just as I get the seat cushions right who is out on a day like today?" The howling January wind and iced roads outside combined with the toasty warm living room inside lulls Colborn into finally addressing his taxes and now someone has… Continue reading The Return of Lady Alvilda

writing, fighting fighting, writing the wordsmith is drained no prose no pose Grey clouds drift on high underneath fall in bloom a heavy sigh so much around abound yet nothing found so i frown the sad clown so i will search my porch perched     damn what was i doing?

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