JAGUAR
11.8.20
This week, I’ve had more practice thanking my skeleton.
It lets my fingertips feel for the collective pulse, yours, hers, my own.
It holds my eyes in their socket (did you know even scarecrows were skinned back in the middle ages?) keeping them open to sniff out the next heartbeat.
So no, I’m not seeing red.
I will however, hold your flag at half mast — rejoicing (or mourning?) the sweetness with a little more salt.
Some would argue there’s flavor in that.
Others claim corrupted purity.