One day I’ll become a magnificent conduit and nothing else will matter.
Something was up at the Bluebird house, and Bob aimed to find out what.
When disaster strikes, we reach for the familiar — something sturdy like the trunk of a tree — and hold on.
I wrote this post in 2016 and Sheri McGregor put it in an anthology, a kind of “Chicken Soup for the Soul” for nature freaks. The essay would belong to Sowing Creek Press for a year following publication after which I could do anything I wanted with it, such as post it here on Plastic […]
Four weeks ago, Bob suffered an impressive heart attack and we both fell off the map.