Yesterday I climbed the big oak behind the old red barn, just high enough where a robin is waiting with open wings. But I’m restless— more like a feather in the wind that cannot fight the breeze, instead of being sturdy like this tree. But I am a quiet loner climbing farther away from shattered …
nothing too much to report
I can't seem to wrap myself around any permanent thoughts. Call it writers block..call it a good phase ...say there's nothing too much to report and this is a good thing.
Dixie's Road Trip 