I’ve been communing with objects again — the ravaged zinnias, the stolid garden rocks, a trowel head missing its arm. Its arm. Inanimate. That is, not spirited, I guess, non-breathed. But the zinnia takes its dying breaths and gives its exhalations, sips the last of its raindrop juice; the rocks take in and give off … Continue reading A North Star. A tuning fork. A thermometer