This is work that is consistently remarkable – toggling existence in the palms of our hearts – this way, this way, this way and that. I applaud Summer’s work, like a van Gogh – the uncanny superior ability to work in many mediums with excellence. Thank you for making Summer.
The wistful sigh-song of the Golden Crowned sparrow in my twilight yard means it is mid-autumn, and they have returned. They usually bring a lift to my heart, otherwise sinking at the thought of another summer gone. The sounds of an inward ritual for the intuitive mourning of the fading daylight. But many haven’t returned to the feeder yet, I suspect because the neighbor’s fat, black cat, named Tater Tot by my son, hovers around their tree. The owner has stopped loving Tater Tot in the ways cats demand, so he saunters from his home to perch on our side of the street where our other neighbor feeds him, and where he apparently receives the necessary recognition, even if it is me yelling profanity at him.
Tai told me that tragedy was born when the individual came to be, when one voice was singled out from the chorus. And tragedy…
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