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[myfriendpuppet]

Puppet’s Blog Entry 5:

I did not feel like writing anything today. The pen felt quiet. I wrote a haiku instead.

Rocky earthen walls,

Raise above tangible grasp,

A fistful of air

[myfriendpuppet]

Puppet’s Blog Entry 4:

The June heat has won out once again in the valley. The leaves of the buckeyes lie wilted, crying from their woody branches. Some turn brown and fall dejectedly upon the earthen floor. The grasses have all died out, having run their rapid life cycle all within two weeks in early spring, leaving behind a golden carpeting upon the rolling hills from which the land was named. It is strange how quick the grasses are to live and to die when the mighty oaks which share the same soil can live hundreds of years— witnessing thousands of generations of grass within a single lifetime.

[myfriendpuppet]

Puppet’s Blog Entry 3:

I went to the blackberry grove today to check on the plants. It seems we will have an abundant harvest this fall— there are already thousands of green berries adorning the branches which had been painted with flowers in the spring. The grove is nice and shaded by a big oak tree who shelters all below. A hawk has her nest up at the top, and her chicks have just fledged. Soon they will leave the nest and there won’t be feathers from the mother’s prey left behind for me any longer. Until next year, I suppose. That tends to be the cycle of things.

[myfriendpuppet]

Puppet’s Blog Entry 2:

I went down by the pond to play today. Wildflowers were abundant and accompanied by a great number of little frogs. They are so silent during the day, yet in the evening they raise their voices to serenade us, guiding us into the realm of sleep. What a funny form they for our escorts into the dream realm— large eyes and widely spread wet and squishy toes. If I didn’t know better I would say they’re the sort of creature to carry an empty skull within their head. I suppose at times looks can be deceiving.

[myfriendpuppet]

Puppet’s Blog Entry 1:

Today I went fruit picking at a farm. It was quiet— I was the only one out in the fields, of course aside from the kind cashier lady. But neither of us spoke and instead allowed the chatter of the birds and the gentle breeze through the trees’ foliage to fill the silence. There is never such a thing as emptiness in sound— a quieting of one sound only makes louder another. Even when there is no external sound, one cannot escape from the sound of the breaths in one’s lungs and the beating of one’s heart. So in a way the wind and the passive songs of lazy birds are about as tranquil as it can be under ordinary circumstances. And the quiet was most delightful.