Pacing while the internets whirl.
It probably isn’t a good thing that the turkeys let me get this close.
They should flee what I might be.
Two hens and a half-pint.
One hot bush, from the little chilies on the bottom to the thirty jalapenos above.
Wait, that’s two bushes in one cage.
Peppertunity.
Be happy that you’re happy.
Everybody must get glad.
A sucking bee
just like a spelling bee, except stickier.
Just being available.
The dense wood in the middle was the base of a butterfly bush that stood eight feet tall.
Last year.
This year, the final frost killed it all, except two tiny sprigs.
Just a flutter by bush, this year.
After awhile, you don’t see this,
because it would be too weird, if you had to explain.
It is something, really.
We’ll die, we will, but it won’t be this pretty.
Death be proud.
They come, to astound, and then to die.
Hear me roar.
Yes, the super moon, two weeks ago.
The camera didn’t know how big it was.
Supper moon?
Any bigger and it would be falling,
a spiral exploding death by gravity.
148,000 words, no, you’ve got to be kidding?
Please, ma’am, Ghost Walk is a story that long,
really, it is.
I have already eschewed surplussage.
They all promise to reply,
unless they don’t.
That’s a “no.”
So say “no” to death,
to go back into the human mind again.
