It was one of those petrichor days when she dreamed and dreamed, or wrote and wrote. Cabins, quilts, damp-soft wood walks, a bird trill out of the blue, far off, now closer. A cove — the murmur of little wind-waves caressing the sandy shore, urging tadpoles to move along their arming and legging. Drifting like a river otter in an old rowboat tied to a dock, tumbling pebbles of wonder and mining the sky..

It never got to the point of happily-ever-after. It only mended a backpack tear under a side table’s bronze lamp, while the shortcake cooled and the dogs lightly snored. A look, a smile.. steady breathing like the hum of warm-enough crickets, and then held breath and the closing of a book that may be opened again at its twig marker, should a dream return before the sun.



12 thoughts on “Littlestorms

  1. loisajay says:

    such dreamy writing. And petrichor….perfect word as it is pouring buckets as we speak…

    Liked by 1 person

  2. den169 says:

    So image-rich!! Kudos!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. den169 says:

    Exquisite imagery!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. […] The Indian Garden – Don’t hold your breath Wandering Worlds Fragrance Of Dawn Relax– Littlestorms The Story Files Fragrance Intensity of Fragrance – Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky Ramona, […]

    Liked by 1 person

  5. jackcollier7 says:

    I had to look up petrichor ~ what a great word, what a great post. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Fantastic! Really wonderful.

    Liked by 1 person

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