I expose a tender, still-hurting place.
He responds: Maybe that’s the lesson you need to learn before you’re allowed to go on to the next life.
Cold. Careless. Cruel. Calculated?
(an accidental alliteration)
What to do but keep walking.
Sad feet stain the forest road.
A muddy pond sinks me lower. Sympathetic trees attempt a rescue.
Signs wave at me.
He punctures the silence with a single word, punctuated by his point: Look. My eyes follow his finger skyward.
A hot pink balloon is, trapped in the paws of a grizzly pine.
To all viewers but yourself, what matters is the product – the finished artwork. To you, and you alone, what matters is the process: the experience of shaping the work.1
A struggle with my daily drabble. Three discordant points occupy my mind, defying order; a disparate triangle.
Kendrick Castillo. Student (their child!) dies defending his Colorado classmates during (another!) school shooting. We the People christen him a hero.
Kurt Cobain, beautiful, (self-deceased) idealist. All apologies.
Brown Bird in my garden, perched atop a sunburned finial. Teacup size, befitting call of teakettle, teakettle, teakettle. Translation: In the sun I feel as one.2