on knowing people whose first language is not this one

speaking to people with honey-thick & beautiful accents brings a whole new meaning to hanging on your every word

i dreamed of the windmills again -

four big gentle giants towering over the blue-green mountains,

whirling round the clock like out-of-sync ballerinas,

clumsy & dressed in bruised white tulle. everything rushes

birdsong woke us at five a.m., the washed-out dawn

altogether too bright. wake-up bugle wasn't til eight, time spent

rolling over and over listening to the screen doors slam.