a smattering of things
Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
so light you can hardly feel it but it patters soft against the metal awning. birds sing in distant trees, little chatters rise and fade as hummingbirds zip from place to place. enough rain has accumulated to begin a slow drip
drip
drip
from the eaves and leaves. just now, a sigh of wind that makes me pull my sweater a little closer. coffee on my tongue.
somewhere in americana, you might be drinking coffee, too.
it’s easiest to find at dusk, under a full moon, or shortly after dawn when every living thing heaves a relaxed sigh.
climb the nearby hill and find the rock that grants you sight of the rib cage valley with its expansion and contraction. (a heartbeat, my heartbeat.)
the archer aims straight for my worn rooftop, my candle on the sill, my palms open and waiting.
find the patch of blue sky that’s visible twenty-four hours a day, and proceed under the flowered arch.
quiet, quiet. the key is already in your hand.
loose threads 