Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • In summer my legs turn into target practice for mosquitoes. My heels become cracked and worn and a thin layer of salt permanently sheaths my skin. My hands grow brown and wrinkly, look like they have been working the land for years. A farmer becomes unearthed. I can see what my face might look like when I become old and wrinkly.

    I develop scratches in odd places. I can never remember how I got them...was it a kiss from some barnacle at the beach? Or the gears of my bike? Some stick in the tall grass as I go bounding through?

    Summer is when I become a canvas for the elements. No more hiding under layers and coats, no more fighting the losing battle of man vs. nature.

    In a strange way I like it...these bumps and scratches, tan lines, and shedding skin. I am not impenetrable, nor do I ever want to be.

    I am like clay being molded and shaped by sun, wind, and sea.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.