Every overcast morning is overcast in its own way. This one’s dull and slow, a gray squirrel on a small dead tree licking its genitals.
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
Every overcast morning is overcast...
This entry was posted in journal and tagged gray squirrel, Tolstoy. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
Both comments and trackbacks are currently closed.
I find animals’ innocence of the vulgar an excellent example to us of how to “just be” in the Buddhist sense.
Yeah, I agree.