story writers

We’re that. Mercilessly spilling it out.

So there I am, biking to work. The long way. Ten miles plus.

It is the underbelly of autumn now in Madison. Brown rather than red or golden. And really, mostly still green. With a rare burst of color.





I bike and I come across the geese. Always the geese. Fly south already! (I’m much less scary than I appear.)





They stare at me and stay put.





Why is it that none of us can ever leave? We hover, and we land, right back where we started from.

Oh life.