Words count.
Words mark our path in the dust.
I rose in the east and learned the words. I rode west and bit by bit learned the bytes and words of the boxed beast. A dusty path.
I write of the loves of my life: my wife, my land, my home, a tree, times passed. We live in a home we call Stone’s Throw. Our yard has a score of trees raised from pups with wash water.
When the words come, I write now and then, for grins. Times fly.