Passages of Time
It’s late July. The spring-fed pond wrinkles around the edges, fissures forming where the ground parches.
I’ve become part of the landscape on this rock. Even the bullfrogs ignore me now, moving with unconcerned ease. A snake slithers into the murky pool, its tongue tasting the air for scents of intruders and prey.
The heat of the afternoon enfolds me like the blanket my late mother wrapped around me as an infant, which I carried every day until it shredded in the washer one fateful Sunday. The sun barely penetrates the leafy canopy above. I feel enshrouded.
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