Telling: Streams & Logs


A sigh among whispers

The shadow of the pen above the page is razor sharp. The melt past the window plays with the ticking of the clock and the Bradford Pear is full of fire where the light sparks the wet: blue and orange and green. Nothing is still. Everything is celebration. When the cloud catches the sun again, the trees return to smoke, and the shadow of my pen falls to a sigh among whispers.