Share this story
Close X
Switch to Desktop Site


About these ads

When I was your child, we counted redwing blackbirds on country fences. When I was your child, we numbered trilliums under fallen oak leaves. When I was your child, we dropped pebbles into spring-choked creeks. Spring came this year. Blackbirds and trilliums are counted, pebbles dropped with endless rings, And I am still your child.

Follow Stories Like This
Get the Monitor stories you care about delivered to your inbox.