This trip is about returning stuff
Some feathers red
Earrings only one actually
An ear ring
Left in a fold of an unmade top sheet
And A small White rock shaped like a heart
the size of a padlock
I was going to call
While returning the stuff
Driving Past the Jim Walters homes
The wind turbines
The new electric lines gangly against the sky
Not aesthetic
But I love electric
And I didn’t call
And somebody said
To sing my self electric
And I am not sure what that means
But so be it
Electric singing myself it is
yellow and black landscape
acrylic on paper