Life is precious, life is sweet, like the earth beneath.

This Wednesday goodbye Kyle, mushrooms on everything, all you can Boston's.
Graveyard, here off Osbourne, probably filled with mushrooms, too.
For mushrooms, dead people are like pizza.

Thursday John Botkin gets BBQed by Navs. Chelsea's blog for a sweet report. Here it is as if people fell from the sky, but not, they rose from the ground. They pulled the bell first, to warn us. Thank you.

Friday, Youth Group, Rosenort. Sing some outside, across from the cemetary. In the sunset. Of our lives. Had a mad game of. Spoons from which I still have two. Gaping burn wounds. But at least I didn't have to drink the salt water. Picture still from Thursday. Kept haunting thoughts.

Weekend mornings. Beautiful. Walk my camera like dog. Capture this spring shot. Like a sling. A sling for broken branches. Later, Sunday afternoon it gets cold and windy. As I work before window, I notice that hundreds of these seed strings are flying from the trees down they come, spring hail, and I go out the screen door to stand on the deck looking west and am showered by these red strands it is such a moment.

Afternoon down by the river's edge. Our neighbour's garbage burial yard got raised by the floodwaters. Bottles everywhere. I, pen, and paper, write messages. In the bottles. We go river. Wedge bottles in the dirt. Then take a swing with a golf club and launch them into stream. If you find a bottle. Leave a message of your find here. There are 15 to collect.