This is an archive of daily observations written by my friend Tom Bridwell. I am not the author, merely a facilitator for Tom, who lives at the edge of the grid. He notices a lot of things and these are his posts, written from the vantage of a ridge top in the hills of Southern Ohio.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Drunken Sailor
Why would you speak to him? A drunken sailor, seven crows, coming onto the lake, they flew away, when the saw me, squawking like pigs fixing to be shot; come my dear, we could calm their wounded souls, we'll scratch them behind the ear.
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