Mild rain, the sort that barely damps. Muffled by a coat hood, walk the rough path to the woods. Wide pools of floodwater in the low fields, reflecting sky. Lively birds, fresh storm felled branches and an old shoulder bone is what we meet on the path.
January is gone, like a bottle on a tide, holding a rolled up list of wishes. Have more fun, I asked of myself, be open to riches, and don't talk about, do it. Little decisions, they add up.
Slide back the coat hood, under the trees, listen to the rain, symphonic, in the open-palm reach of the evergreens.


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