BIRDS
It's eleven am on a Friday.
I've been dreaming for the past forty-eight hours.
I want to be a beatnik bongo baby and play my little djembe all over town. I want to drink thick hot cocoa on a cold morning at a quiet outdoor cafe in the mountains and smoke black clove cigarettes. I want to run so swift and so silent though a canyon and across a beach. I want to bathe in the hot, dry desert sun. I want to drive for five days and see towns I've never seen. I want to sit on a log in the middle of the woods and play music with my baby-baby. I want to be able to pay attention to every individual leaf and drop of rain. I want to tie ribbons and feathers into my hair. I want a hug from a twelve foot tall Cherokee ghost. I want to sit on the shore house pier and sip buttered rum in the middle of the night and watch the fish and mermaids in the bay.
This weekend should be a blast. Lots and lots of good food and good company (my two favorite things in the world!)
I've been dreaming for the past forty-eight hours.
I want to be a beatnik bongo baby and play my little djembe all over town. I want to drink thick hot cocoa on a cold morning at a quiet outdoor cafe in the mountains and smoke black clove cigarettes. I want to run so swift and so silent though a canyon and across a beach. I want to bathe in the hot, dry desert sun. I want to drive for five days and see towns I've never seen. I want to sit on a log in the middle of the woods and play music with my baby-baby. I want to be able to pay attention to every individual leaf and drop of rain. I want to tie ribbons and feathers into my hair. I want a hug from a twelve foot tall Cherokee ghost. I want to sit on the shore house pier and sip buttered rum in the middle of the night and watch the fish and mermaids in the bay.
This weekend should be a blast. Lots and lots of good food and good company (my two favorite things in the world!)