Beyond the great- by and by, I hear the sound of rain marching through streets, marching onto roofs and houses, accompanied by the sky, bitten-by its thunder. Flashing -the glory of the morning. Swinging in the branches, tapping on the power lines. Beating out the rhythms of fall. Whats’ to come. What is to love of love itself.
Undoubtedly the potential of love in all its glory
kindness sis. Krissy