sunday morning. humid, still, lush, sticky, overgrown. creamy white catawba blossoms hang from the gray sky, dropping spent blooms into the creek. the smell of honeysuckle meanders in through the open doors. the green could not be greener. i am typing to the one rhythm my fingers seem to have, a slow dance, almost not moving.
small breezes blow by and keep going. we'll stay. the day is calling us.