It was the first 70°+ day of the season. You couldn’t just feel the warmth you could smell it. The way your surroundings are lit up within and exuding energy, brilliance, and heat.
The Pink Moon was on the rise. The quarry filled with the sounds of honking fowl. The magnificence of the Pink Moon beaming off the ripples of the quarry waters.
Darkness, calmness, majestic.
Behold the sweetness of the signaling of Spring. Of promise. Of growth. Of rebirth. Of blossoming and burgeoning. Creativity bursting at the seams.
And stillness.
Are Spring’s promises, the introduction of Winter’s death? Can we rely on Spring and the ushering of freshness in as a cleanser of the invisible viral pandemic?
If so, let’s roast that bastard! Fatherless strain and harbinger of destruction.
And then, we toast.
Visual representation of story on @tolbert_on_medium Instagram.
