Tweet 8 Climate Change

I move the broom across the courtyard. The sun pokes holes in the back of my arms. Papery blossoms, sunflower seed shells, tiny, downy feathers collect at my feet. After, the sun bores into my calves when I bow forward in yoga. This sun is not the sun I grew up with.

[re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]

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