The Sound of My Voice

A few days ago, as I checked most of my self-assigned coronavirus projects off my list I took advantage of a free offer to watch a documentary for which I’d neglected making time to see in the theaters last year. As much as I knew I needed to see it and wanted to see it, I also thought it would be a difficult 95 minutes of viewing. I can’t remember any other film that I ever had the same hesitation. Watching it at home seemed a better plan since I could pause the show whenever I wanted.

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Storytelling

On April 7 we lost John Prine to the COVID-19 virus. I don’t usually pay much attention to celebrities when they die, and truth be told, he never really felt like a celebrity in the sense that most others do. He was a brilliant writer. His voice fit him. He had the best voice for the words he penned. But first and foremost, to me he was the consummate poet. In his lyrics he spoke volumes. There won’t be another John Prine.

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It is Sunday, isn’t it?

The dogs have been fed and had their first fetch of the day. I’m hopeful I can have a quiet moment to write, so I’m sitting at my desk with a cup of coffee; the window is open to chirping birds, budding trees, and the crisp smell of spring.

Tiny Charlie is biting Emma’s ear. Two of my three dogs.

Aaaaaand…we’re finished. There is a playful growl to my left and I look over to see this. Yes, Tiny Charlie is in fact trying to eat Emma’s ear.

So much for a quiet Sunday. It is Sunday, isn’t it?

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