there is the man with the three german shepherds–i pull my own pup away from them, passing the little free library, i see that peter rabbit is keen to be chosen by someone’s tiny curious hands and i think about my own children and how they’ve grown, and how i love them more than i could have ever imagined loving–how watching them fly away and watching them become such good and kind people has been so joyful, but there, a butterfly flits from one stem to another and its soft yellow beauty transfixes me in the moment as i stop to listen to the humming of the bees–juliet pulls on her leash and i see the grey neighborhood cat approaching, so i walk onto the uneven bricks, crossing the street near the bright purple garden, close to where i once photographed a smashed can of orange crush
spanishwoods 