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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