There once was a girl who could write
Her words were full of insight
She tried a limerick
That fell like a brick
But her stories floated like light.
In March, I still don’t usually like to walk in the morning.
Even though I’m a walker.
I don’t hike or run, trot or dawdle. I walk for miles for the majesty of . . . walking.
No little music plugs; instead I keep my ears open for the sound of the woodpecker and the hawk, the trill of the mocking bird and the taunt of the squirrel. I listen to the scrunch of the leaves, the low roar of the plane above me, and the soft slap of my shoes on wooden bridge and wooded path.
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