The palms near the traffic lights broadcast a sweet Southern birdsong as I wait for the signal. In the deepening blue of early evening, I strain to see a place among those swaying arcs of leaves where any bird could perch, and am left wondering if the trees themselves have learned to sing.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 1st, 2013 at 11:54 am and is filed under Small Stones. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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This is beautiful mr o… a scenario well worth wondering about!