Falling down hill. Walking on tops of tree branches. Breaking them on the way down.
Barking dog, snarling Pomeranian, stabbed by stick and fall in ditch.
I’m fine, only cuts on arms, tic-tac-toe and only one bleeding wound drips as I’m walking on tracks, off the normal road, not on the path, where helmets peddle screws of turning wheels.
Swans swims and people taking pictures of rocks as shadows and smoke pass among sailboats-speed boats, passing aquatic mammals.
Pen died, found pencil in my pocket. I had to walk away from people. I wanted to be alone.
Adventures In American Writing 