watercolour and ink on paper
Those crows
He looked at his foot, a misstep. Momentarily the wrong place to set his foot, the ground was soft, the sludge creeping up. He was about to step back when he heard the cackle behind him. Those crows. He wondered if he could pull his foot back without them noticing. He thought maybe they weren't even watching him this time. But he couldn't risk it. He stepped forward, squelch. He pretended this was what his plan had been all along. Bloody crows.
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And when the listening is done it is time to talk. Time to talk, the words written in bold, no, in glowing lights, a sign above the door when entering. But without that gift of small talk, the kind that makes all feel heard, without that gift, to talk meens wanting to say something and you are not even sure you want to have something to say.
October 23
An so with the darkness knocking at the door patiently waiting for the inevitability of...
