Sweat. Trickling it slides and
tickles. A mosquito flies by. Itching hands seek out the insect that is biting
into tender, fleshy parts. A slap.
Summer’s
autumn days are here. I walk through the compact of tan foundation with its
cool powder puff of clay, and contemplate the insect sounds that flit here and
there and all around. The days are hot. Exposure bleached my hair out long ago.
The forest, sick with streaks of gold, flaked out in the sun for too long. It
peels without interest. Those trees whose roots are shallow have leaves of
half-green -- squiggled scorch marks -- and of half-yellow.
The
hand feels wet and the mouth emits a groan. Great. Another blood bomb. But, look.
The hand is covered in a translucent, clear substance. Sweat.
Well, that was a fun way to spend twenty minutes.
Have a magnificent week!
Love,
Jenny
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