By Jennifer Brookins

jennifer brookins

I can never forget you in early morning when I watch blades of grass shake their fingers at a ground hog who stepped too hard on their back-side, or the old man in the supermarket who bent his arthritic back to pick up a tomato rolling down the aisle. You are everywhere yet remain hidden. Your silence is deafening yet no music compares to your fiddle.

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

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