A sunny day day at the estaminet.
Inside, a cod’s head, deep in drink, espies a tree’s shadow on outside’s wall and, to the self, notes, “Gah, that is too bright and that monster is quite a fright.”
Outside, a well-read, asip in tea, fancies the flora’s signing upon the same place—and in sync with the breeze—and ponders to the air, “Is it chaos that your kisses domino their way to my wonder or is it, perhaps, as balanced as a butterfly regarding its symmetry?”
Do thoughts prompt one to retrocede or progress? Whether sitting in the light or the dark, finds find us. And, whether that which we experience is fearful or fantabulous often depends not on where we set our literal chairs, but on where we seat our minds. ; )