Sitting in the past, letting it wash over me, glancing up to the sky to retain my current self. The soft air, the pollen, the drawl and rhythm of the voices - missing verb tenses as if on purpose, as if a point of pride. Time traveler.
So much beauty: birds bluer than I've ever seen, mockingbirds asking for conversation in which I often engage. The buzzards so sure this land is theirs in their well-cut black suits, dodging cars on the rural road, sending crows on their way. There is life here, fecund, feral and soft all at the same time. The scars of youth see this all with new eyes, new nerves, new ears - working under the surface to some point in the future we've yet to see.