The summer snow here kills me, in that yes-please-kill-me way. Sitting on the grass in my (my? Seem to have colonized that awfully quick) park, while dandelion dust drifts, suspended in air, as if inside a snow-globe shaken from all sides — air fresh like quiet freedom. Hands, fingers run along grass; soft dust nestled between blades for summer sleep, cat-napping ’till atmosphere stirs again. Stare up, up into leafy canopies overhead as sun darts in-and-out of shadowy-shapes. Heaven, truly.
Slice of, anyway.