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  • The sky is thick with squirrels.

    They run over the high branches, in their crime-scene scurries, chasing each other up and down the bark roads, shaking the leaf tops, owning the sky.

    The sky wants to rain.

    The squirrels don't care.

    They perp-and-police up and down the century trees.

    The sky gets its wish.

    The grey rains and the gossamer sky roads rustle.

    Down below, my red hood is up. I am happy at a table, under my blue sky umbrella.

    But wait. I spot a white unfolding down the garden path.

    And hey. The rain lets up, as it does on occasion in its grace.

    No. Yes. A wedding dress I do espy. I come closer.

    The buds of the wedding dress begin to unfold. A figure emerges from the leafage and the grey--begone!--and so it is, as wishes on occasion are truly granted.

    Out of the quiet, I am a guest at a wedding dress. Under squirrel skies, a May wedding dress blooms, and buds and blooms.



    (Photo by Susan, in the garden)
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