rejectomorph: (hopper_ground_swell)
Soft white masses cling to the mountains, and the valley is hazed, but here the perfect blue sky and perfect gold sun prevail. Mulberry leaves mute the brilliance, and in their green shade birds peck at the yellowing lawn. A squirrel darts along the street, gray on gray, refusing to linger on the hot pavement. Its motion scribes a fluid line that reminds me of rippling water. I hear the drone of a small airplane, but do not see it. I am watching the dense but filmy cobwebs on a nearby bush. A light afternoon breeze is making them belly like sails. I imagine the bush uprooting itself and drifting off at a stately pace, powered by the wind. The day's heat and serene repose make me drowse, until the day itself seems something I might have dreamed.

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rejectomorph

August 2017

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