I was born without a sense of smell. The sense of taste depends upon the sense of smell in many ways. My eyes, my sweet eyes depend upon a camera and a computer so that I can…..
Sometimes the whispers sing like a choral symphony. The harmony of spring and winter. The soloist drop of melting snow clinging to the fir tree’s fingertip. The dandelion and ant exploding spring’s tympani. The crescendo of the moon’s smile midday. A magpie’s saucy brassy…..
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