All worded out and building to a new space gathering bits of straw and hair to nest in comfort for a day or two until I’m nudged out again and forced to fly and stress about the worms and seeking seeds to fill me up.
Cycling life in studious semesters. Not quite wound down fully when they’re done. Move on, move on, grab only what I can of precious words and language twists that made some sense. Leave the rest behind, it doesn’t matter; importance, after all, is just a transitory state of mind.
I’m almost ready; yes, I am. And sad.