The mystery of rain: it falls alike on dirt and grass, on concrete and macadam; it falls until it stops, for the love of Mike, and it leaves the soil besotted, Madam.
The antenna-edged ants attack first. They attach a butterfly to a memory deep in our hearts. They turn to a transparent lie, as they try to match their skin with ours. That these ants get their smarts From bells and ringing shells, chords that detach to ply a misericordia of all the parts tooContinue reading “The Garden Butterfly”