Spun in a Circle

[michaelboy]

It was a small nest made of hay (not for birds but simply for single-digit me). I remember how sweet it smelled and how the warm splotches of sun felt as they filtered through that clump of black locust trees. It surely was as if I could have lived there forever....except I’d eventually grow up and want to have lunch.

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No truer words:

In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret.
The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.
From: The Poet, R.W. Emerson

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And a lovely companion expression, that is certainly worth a listen:

Watch on YouTube