misty ovenbird I’m looking for signs that will make it seem that I’m not thousands of miles away. I want to believe that we can transcend the space between us, that the ocean can whisper salt spray sonnets, that the two eagles on the pier might carry our voices into the sky. But all I find are omens of my own sad heart—the tansy cut down along the trail, trampled into the dust of a thousand suns; blackberries shrivelled on the vines; a mosquito finding the sorrow sweetened blood in my veins. The only story the world wants to tell is one of loss. I’ll come back to hope but for now the only thing keeping down the dust of despair is the mist of my weeping. 260806 what's it to you? who go blather from