The moon plumps up, bugs thicken. We watch the swallows by the lake flitter like bats in the morning. How blue the sky, clouds provide texture. You can look up there and pretend it’s a moving picture or maybe the set is down here. That soft time before dusk with a breeze and birdsong. Times like this you could tell yourself there’s nothing wrong with the world, and for a time believe it’s true.

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, prose, William Pearse writer