Owl song threading the valley at dawn. Now four finches placed at symmetrical intervals on a line. Soft fine rain; convolvulus trumpets open and drinking. I notice they're pentagonal – esoterically five-petalled flowers belong to the feminine principle and the Great Goddess. I climb through the canopy-tunnel of the fallen ash – micro-forest of ganglia.
The dog's 'holding her own', though not her food; I hand-feed her as I do my mother
in the care home when I visit. (Unlike my mother the dog throws gloop
around the room.) I can be distressed at both situations; or I can see
this attention-giving as a kind of prayer.
Israel's released 1000 Palestinians for a young Israeli soldier; let's hope that helps relations.
In Sweden Kurdish refugees facing deportation to Iran have sewn their mouths shut in protest. Iran is executing people at an average rate of two a day (see change.org)
How to speak of this? There are times to shout; times when words don't go far enough, when only silence will do.
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