By: James Aitchison The weather washes away yesterday’s words. Exhausted leaves carpet the feet of scholarly trees. Birds peck at grammar on the roof. The drizzle embraces my solitude. It is a very fine day for writing.
By: James Aitchison The weather washes away yesterday’s words. Exhausted leaves carpet the feet of scholarly trees. Birds peck at grammar on the roof. The drizzle embraces my solitude. It is a very fine day for writing.