Thoughts race, colliding with echoes. Sunday morning, not much different than any other, but today the stream speaks quieter than usual.
The barn's weathered wood creaks, a song of its own. Phone buzzes in another room, but what’s said doesn't quite matter. The pond: tranquil pattern disrupts, reminding these are restless, ever-shifting times.
It's compound effects now showing—those unseen ripples reach shores unknown. Steps from our door to sidewalk into tangled paths—resistant, stubborn, resilient in nature, like truths unearthed only just barely.
Cottage Pathways Threadbare Thoughts