Ambiance in the breeze. A song; Whitmanian whistle. If only I could whistle fluently, to capture the songs within mid-April breeze. I usurp the the wind chimes with austere hand, as if to channel the medium.

I look down into the murky abyss of my bathroom sink, listening to the satisfying hum of hydrogen peroxide. Where do sewers go for a cleansing, a baptism? They have one use and one use only. Charon knows

A tree fell on my car today killing me instantly. A mile away, a man photographed the lightning strike that hit the oak. Published it nationwide, spun an agenda, won an award, whatever. Does he know how