Mrs. Taylor

by P.K. Hill

Monday, I went to the park and sat on a bench and took photographs of anything that moved and quite a few things that did not move. The day was glorious. Seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit and not a tinge of my arch enemy, humidity. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg and dotted with occasional fluffy white clouds and a host of birds; birds that swooped, soared, and skimmed the surface of the ponds catching flies in midair. I needed the break. 

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