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?