If there is a god, of any kind, it surely lingers over Portland (OR) with a mouth full of water. Some days bursting out in laughter and spewing a fine mist and other days gargling a fine mess, sloshing. It must hibernate for a set a months, because it’s only when this god curls and hides that we really come out to play, in the cherry blossoms, on the curling grass sucking so hard for god’s spit it turns brown in frustration.
I live in Portland with two cats, a dog and a husband in a house. A woman, a neighbor, she sings from her porch most days. I’m inspired and I wanted someone to know it.
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