Down at the end of the road there's a place where the school bus turns around. It's a dirt area, grass long gone from a year of heavy tires. After rain, puddles filling the muddy depressions. After rain, the silt is stirred up, the water too muddy to see the pebbles at the bottom. Instead, the puddle reflects the trees nearby.
What do the puddles in your neighborhood see of the world?
Sue -- What a gorgeously poetic post. In honor of National Poetry Month, I've taken the liberty of reframing your words as a poem. You may find it here, by copying the link into your browser. Cheers! -- Christie https://www.canva.com/design/DAC1Qrab9rc/oNrx_YBvdtKkPFdlth8iXA/view?utm_content=DAC1Qrab9rc&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link&utm_source=sharebutton
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