no blogger is greater than blogging itself

Thinking this, I sit silently on the park bench and gaze down at the ground – watching the shifting shadows of the tree branches and leaves playing, dancing, swaying across the pavement.

A robin sings.

Who am I?  What am I?  Just these words . . . .

Some times, when I look into the mirror, I do not recognize the reflected image.

When you pass my grave, what will you think?