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Early morning outage alerted sleeping children to the deep darkness, the noiseless space, the eerie cocoon of their sleep. Wimpering, shuffling, finding the security blankets of mom and dad soon followed, along with hours more of sniffling, squirming, and copious amounts of "What time is it?" Soggy day now, though power is back on, leaving only the outage of lost sleep. |
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The Spirit sighs, a new bubble is born and I within it. Fragile, fluid, floating refractor of Light. I am safe in here, though the air often has an air of alone ... wait, perhaps a better word ... solitude. |
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The crisp-brown clutter all over the yard. What to do? Pile it up! Pounce upon it! Don't just capture it 'neath metal wire and in the camera lense ... Don't just give the go for the younger ones ... Get in there! Piles are for pouncing. |
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The sense of the scent triggered a strong memory of sadder times in adolescence. Organic, grief-stricken, lost myself in the air as if I somehow wafted back through air and hours and years. In a split-second, I returned, feeling older, wiser? Grateful. |
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Began with whisper soft spider steps dancing in my throat. Grew to scraping spider slides, same dance floor. Before long, the feeling of weeping arachnids filled my nose. Bless you, bless you, bless you ... Now, somehow, a tarantula is lodged in my chest ... cramped ... causing sleeplessness and the unsettled bewilderment ... How am I to preach today? |