Ripe morning of possibilities.
Stonehenge madness as the pagan/wiccan worship.
But I wait until the set of the solstice sun, beams low and prismatic.
That is when he comes.
The green messenger. Giving me my orders. Expanding on the plot.
How well goes the infiltration. How well we hide in human skins.
Too bad my view is blocked by bars and wire mesh.
I press my hand against the glass as the last of the solstice sun disappeared.
No answering green suction cup froggish fingers return the pressure.
Anxiety over comes me. Where is my green messenger this year?
Written, stream of consciousness, for Sunday Photo Fiction (a wonderful way to start a Sunday) June 21, 2015
And to all who celebrate Summer Solstice and/or Father’s Day, all the best. Enjoy the special day.