A mild winter, now the jolt of morning shattered with birdsong, and this dim silver sun, a sliver lodged behind broken contrails. * It is a form of mercy when the rain falls hard enough to absorb the long night’s piercing silence in a rush of wordless sound. * March: a threshold of mud before forsythia spikes yellow, frantic yellow, caution-tape yellow around vacant parking lots. * Might as well be spring. The drunkards in my building gather in the shade of the alley—their shaded speech sinking into blue dusk.
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But the chicory blue flowers brighten everyone’s day yet by moon fade and close their petal’s door.
Exquisite photo. I tweeted “it is a form of mercy…