the café suspended strings of white lights, like stars pointing the way shadowed tables, people talking, whispering, listening, leaning inward for the words waiters in aprons angling between tables welcome aromas red cloth napkins, anxious expecting eyes waiting is the gift finally received
each year a roadside meadow bordered by stonewalls breathes a harvest of wild flowers and weeds sharing soil and space rain and wind seasons of change providing evidence of a glorious gift
we are water within a great river singular not yet seen we move in flocks and herds down roads climbing stairs to doors unfamiliar within a few there is a calling a message scrawled on the heart of a gift yet used we are a great rush of sound over … More RUNNING THE RACE
Roger Singer 