The tinkling of chimes plays in the squirrel march. Up the crooked trees, with their pickled woops, bushy tails flapping, and a long breeze that sounds like the ocean. It is morning. The kind of morning you could eat with strawberry jelly and a single egg made delightfully over easy. The kind of morning hummingbirds rave about at the water well. The kind of morning a young doe once dreamt of in a gay meadow. There are mountains in the distance, meditating quietly on the emptiness of time. And somewhere there is a home, calling out to me. But I am deaf to its sound. I am wandering. Sleeping in other people’s beds, beneath other people’s sheets. Dreaming of another life. Thinking of oatmeal, and the watery lilt of your sweet voice.


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