I can travel the boulevards of Paris, the souks of Morocco and the sierras of Spain yet fail to find anything as entrancing as that tree,
bare and alone in the field this winter.
I buried the bird that flew into the window by the big, green propane tank. All I can remember is the blue and the yellow of its feathers and thinking how could
something so beautiful be so dead?
Forget your golden thrones and your private jets, your Platinum cards and your million fans. I will forgo all those things for five quiet minutes watching the squirrel on the branch with snow in its fur.
There’s that momentbetween in and out,between noun and verb,between thought and deed,between note and chord,between fork and mouth,between breeze and rustle,between desk and couch,between tweet and squawk,between tick…