Writing

Bubu,

You haven’t heard our clacking in a while. 
What have you forgotten?

We remember all those tireless nights: 
swallowed by the game, 
the lively yells that you loved. 

The West Wind is a banker in a smart navy suit and a tie. His dress shoes clack on the pavement; he’s got someplace to be, always someplace to be, rushing to the sidewalk, the subway, the elevator, checking his gold Rolex watch.

I want to go back to that simpler time,

Where we ran through fields and played in dirt,

When we had an abundance of freedom, a million open moments,

Here's what makes

the music magic:

"Hit a wall".

He means get softer

dramatically

this has always helped me get it.

"Put the beat inside your body".

To minimize foot tapping

is more of a creek,

covered in yellow leaves and rotting branches 

that staunch the flow like a bandage over blood.

The river in the woods

probably used to rush

like its brothers farther north, shrieking

ywp is my 

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