Birch branches curve slightly upward, less insistent than the oak. Across the street from me, in a different building, is a man who can explain why this is so, but we do not know each other.
Meantime, I guide my life by dreams, inefficient as always, prone to depression, occasionally putting my forehead down on the wet lawn early.
Planet of the Blind 
Steve, oh Steve. This is an exquisite little piece–the sensory appeal so strong. (Especially the sense of touch that ends it all with your forehead on the wet lawn…. metaphorically, literally, meaningfully). Thanks for sharing, my friend. As ever, I adore you and your words too.
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