Southern summer nights–a hint of honeysuckle on an errant breeze, the cicadas’ grating song. From a tangle of tree limbs, an owl asks his eternal question.
Past and present blur into one. This could be a hundred years ago, or it could be now. The evenings are the same. People move through, one era closes and another begins, but the sounds, the scents, the feelings linger. It’s a time for dreaming.
Speak Your Mind