Jim Nightshade.

A solitary three foot tall blue heron painstakingly plods softly at water’s edge, then moves jerkily onto the bank. 

Mallards swim, no, glide over the green water, then hop out and chase and waddle and scoot and slip back in the pond.

Eighty four on the way to one hundred. Is that the temp I’m musing over or the depressed geriatric patient I just saw? 

Hot, flashing sparkles on the gently rippling lake. 

Edamame on my tongue. Hot pepper. 

A nap would be nice, but there’s no time.

There’s no time. 


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