baja or bust

baby bird sounds squeak-chirping

how sole and i peer over the fence to follow it and find:

young ones, sortof yellow blackish stripe in their fluffball state

peeking out from the shrubbery

come to find out later

they are young quails


baja or bust becomes our joke of the day

when we get into the truck and then head fairwards


jesse fuller on the youth stage

the cellist w/ a looping pedal

sound circling so smooth sweet and light about us


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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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