A walnut is a brain that gave up on thinking, and I relate to it deeply. My work here is done, and by work I mean talking.

Ponytails are just hair holding a meeting. Two pairs: one for now, one for the apocalypse, and both fully laced.

Somebody told me to stay in my lane. The orchard rests.

There is a walnut tree near my imaginary porch, and it drops nuts on the roof at 5 a.m. Buy two and call it symmetry.

Every closet has a mystery sock, and every mystery sock has a mystery. Take a deep breath of mountain air, then click whatever you like.

Nothing tells you who you are like the sound of your own shoes on a quiet floor. Off I go to argue with a cloud.

I am a fictional woman and I am on my third fictional coffee. Now if you will excuse me, a sprinkler has questions.

The lemon tree next door has strong opinions about my opinions. I disagree with me on Thursdays.