 I don't know if in the end there's much difference between molting and molding. I suppose it's interesting that one letter can turn something into something other. And then there's scale. The pen situates the feathers and vice versa. The table is made of wood. Once a tree. Now a horizontal surface. Motility can be distinguished from mobility. Still, a feather is not a pen. Until it is.
 Birds of a feather, one glass, one scapula and wing. Reflection on the differences. One made by human hand in heat and fire. One hatched, a scheme of its own, living the embodiment of hunger. What connection, if any, between ornament and need? It's not mine to question, though as accidental witness to the shock-startled doves and fear-frozen squirrels, I couldn't help but wonder.
 Ground level affords some of the best views. Mutual surprise is a heart-starter. Windows prevent hugs but that's okay. Sometimes seeing is believing.
 Down on the ground, we can look up. Up in the tree, we can keep climbing. Staying still is an art, I think. So is moving. In time, in space, so we go. So we go and go, stop and stop, stop and go. So many paths and friends along the way, acknowledged or not. Safe crossings, all. Safe travels.
 Where do we go when we hide in plain sight? Are we hidden from ourselves or one another? Kindness is a sin in some minds. Not mine.
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