“e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” —Dante Alighieri, 34th Canto, La Divina Commedia A tiny thing, a particle, a protein anointed in oil,
How she wants the pleasure of the comb in autumn, brimmed with clover drops, a whole season of frenzy sated by the taste of
Crow spots the slither in high weeds next to the roadway; crow knows what this creature wants and needs. Flies down, lands a hop
It looks soft nosing through the clover and I’m happy to have it here or if