Every day can’t be a good one. Somebody famous didn’t have to wring out calculations to prove this to me. I just know it instinctively.
All day, ravens have been
crashing hard against our sky of windblown clouds. Greasy-birds, we have come to call them. So annoying how they squawk. And they flap too much. A better bird would glide.
Yesterday I had an answer for everything. The sun felt like my best pal’s arm over my
shoulder. I swear it did. I wanted to prance a little.
Today I want to swallow a
pretty rock so I might feel like there is something of worth inside me.
Foul weather. The wrong teams winning. And I don’t want to read another of those
jarring obituaries carrying the names of people know.
— Mitchell Hegman
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