The mountains found me pretty much as I found them. We greeted one another like distant relatives might at a wedding or a funeral, without the uncomfortable questions or assumptions that one of us will call the other up some random day with an invite to lunch. Except for bits of self-amputated bone and parts of unnecessary organs left buried in various secret locations along lay lines, there’s not really any evidence I existed.
{Day book 2026 // Spring 3.30.26]
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Mick Parsons
Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
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