This is a July poem, but so what? It’s just barely August, so … close enough for folk music. HARBINGER by Marian Allen The locust trees are turning and it’s only July. Gold-brown, red-brown, brown, they shock the eye, dead in the green; as out…

Sweetie Pie Turner, here, MomGoth’s mother’s cat. Tipper is in trouble for scratching the couches — repeatedly and deliberately — but I was scheduled to post today, anyway. The other day, when MomGoth came up to take care of Mom in the morning, she couldn’t…

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