Sometimes, when it’s still; when the clouds hang heavy, I stand on the edge of the road and gaze at Thompson’s Bridge. Sometimes, it appears ugly. Other days, it’s beautiful. Today … well, I’m not sure. There’s a mist in
Late. Again. Restlessness startles my nerves awake. How does that old saying go? ‘No rest for the wicked.’? I can’t see the sun without missing the moon. There are no absolutions for some things and I sit here this early
Maryjane stared at photos perched on her counter. The dynasty would last forever. The babies now, were great-grands. They’d carry on for decades; or until growing became legal. Then, who knew. Maryjane sighed … The newcomers had to be run off.