The smallest of creatures

Today a lovely little warbler flew into our front window.  On a beautiful spring day with life bursting all over, this tiny yellow bird is struggling to live. I am watching over it but do not want to touch it as to cause further harm. I am praying it is just in shock and will survive.

At this moment, the fate of that little bird is more important to me than all the petty little people of the world. The flying monkeys who continue to go out of their way to harass me and others. Hypocrites calling others hypocrites. Everything  they accuse me of they have done themselves and then some. The difference is they are a gang of thugs, who think they have power over others and can control what people say or think.

I have struggled to keep you out of my thoughts and it gets easier everyday.  I suggest you try it.

The birds outside my window are more important to me and more entertaining.Wilson's Warbler

 

 

 

The Real Story Behind Facebook Moderation and Your Petty Reports

The Internet Offends Me

Imagine going to work every day and at the start of your day, with your first cup of coffee, you sit down to glance at beheadings, children in the process of being raped, human bodies in various stages of decomposition, the living and dead results of domestic violence, hanging bodies of 10 year old boys accused of being gay, real-life snuff films and bloody dog fighting rings and their subsequent results. Can you think up a human horror? I’ve probably seen it or a picture or video of something very similar. It’s fair to say that some of the people who work around me do not fare so well. Often they end up suffering from the endless barrage of horror they witness 8 to 12 hours per day. Did I share that *most* of these people make around a dollar per hour to do this job? That’s the truth. Not…

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My Mother

The Cuckoo's Nest

I remember you in the spring when the lilacs bloomed. The bouquets you placed on our night stands filled the air as we slept.

In the summer you planted rows of petunias and marigolds, baked sour cherry pies.

You took each season and made something of it. You made art of weeds. You made food a demonstration of your love that you couldn’t always express in the hurried rush of life.

I still miss you. But you are with me every time, I plant a garden, bake a pie or cook a special dinner.

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I miss your love.

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