I’m about one month older where you are—it’s February here. I’m writing this in my big puffy jacket, which I should probably take off, but I can’t be bothered. It’s like a cocoon. Duck down cocoon. Snow covers the garage; long icicles drip off the gutters.
How’s March? Fine?
It’s probably cold where you are (or else warm and sunny). I’m probably feeling philosophical where you are, too. A bird just flew by the window. As quick as that.
What’s a bird doing in February?
Here’s your future:
Ruby slippers, as in Oz. How to write flash? “Let go. Then let go more.” (Nancy Stohlman, “Compressed Q&A”).
“Kai is Maori for food; Kia ora koutou is Maori for Hullo everyone.” Kiwi special sauce. (Frankie McMillan, Footnote)
Pigyards and pens. “ Her mom sat back down into the creaking glider.” (Vic Sizemore, “Escape Route”)
“The parents consulted a wise man. He told them to leave his daughter alone, so they did.” The passage of time. (Nahal Suzanne Jamir, “Seeds”)
Fufu on the table. But more: “She gave herself to him, body and soul.” (Fatimah Saheed, “Let Us Be Mothers”)