There were many smallstones offered me today;
the magic of a posse of starlings, twenty or more, navigating the wind and the light poles
and; he asks, "Can you feel that?", after these little patches are attached at one end to my sacrum and the other to some square-boxed circuitry system with diodes. I say, "Whoa", as my flesh starts to ripple. He says, "I've barely just turned it on." I keep realizing just how sensitive I am.
Then, I open up to the first poem from Mary Oliver's latest offering, "A Thousand Mornings"; Mary IS the smallstone.
the magic of a posse of starlings, twenty or more, navigating the wind and the light poles
and; he asks, "Can you feel that?", after these little patches are attached at one end to my sacrum and the other to some square-boxed circuitry system with diodes. I say, "Whoa", as my flesh starts to ripple. He says, "I've barely just turned it on." I keep realizing just how sensitive I am.
Then, I open up to the first poem from Mary Oliver's latest offering, "A Thousand Mornings"; Mary IS the smallstone.
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