Blog: June 2011

When the hummingbird sinks its face into the trumpet vine and the funnels of the blossoms, and the tongue leaps out and throbs, I am scorched to realize once again how many small, available things are in the world that aren’t pieces of gold or power– that nobody owns or could buy even for a hillside of money– that just float about the world, or drift over the fields, or into the...
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