Black gloves drift on the wind, landing on alternating branches, becoming forms with glossy beaks, laughter and secrets. They spend the day bowing across the field and back again, myself and the resident donkey spend the day watching them with slow mouths, smiling and reflecting
PS please forgive the delay in this week's blog, there's a bit of illness + internet storms issues in the mix
Dec 17
at
8:37 PM
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