When in the spring I round that corner where the tiny white petals drift down about me, I admire the slender white birch rising through the gnarled black branches of the cherry tree, and I look around warily in case a fox should suddenly drop into sight, brandishing a curved sword, or a band of Ronin come into view, leaning against their horses.
This time, it was only the fellow with the graying beard sitting on a milkcrate, the head of his chihuahua poking out of the neck of his motorcycle jacket.
Gerast áskrifandi að:
Birta ummæli (Atom)
Engin ummæli:
Skrifa ummæli