day before strawberries

black saturday...




again, a plane ride away.  back in the city that is not half as strange except.  every one is away.  in places far and calling.  but every thing else.  they remain the same.  the streets and the rain trees' flowers.  the shops, no matter only half awake.  and this strange lolling of this another tongue.  a language reminding me of cottonwood bursting forth cottons.