In a trail of paw prints that fade from view over time, the deepest secrets are quietly unspooled. Tilt your head to the side, stare into the void, and picture your second self as a black and white cat in a boundless field of green. Morning dew wants you to know that the instant of recognition is now. Not all ghosts are holy.
Today: the color of yucca blooms, carnelian, music in the key of D, the sound of a melting snowpack, the dreamway visioning of mugwort leaves.
* * * * * * *