a patch of grass left untouched so that wandering feet have somewhere gentle to wait
rarely introduced: good old mango tree braving the haze
time flies at the coffeeshop: cold dawn draft drags a feather back into the dark
light drumming of rain on window pane: inviting you to nap
charred field: a brave family of rocks bear witness to the destruction
the centuries old well sings only when sunlight reaches its bottom
the morning mist reaches out a tendril and touches the tip of tongue: alive
wildflowers by the autumn coast reinventing the dance of waves
when field crickets fall silent: night has drawn first blood
existence: aren’t we all just fuel for someone else’s nightmares
