What is it?

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I was once observant towards the tracks bunnies made them when I see them in a silent appearance escort and my son in puma pants built in escort outwards.

A cordial hi to another species and branch of the backyard microbiome

No plots to toil or I’d be held accountable: for fucking up a perfect thing I made.

That’s the resistance that toasts me in grace, for wins and for personal clauses: I’ve done enough

What else could be grazing my attention?

In backyard soil I told at making perfect place to write

And here I am

No Pit nor Valley.

Just growth

Somehow blindly, I knew it’d work out that way.