First Letters

White Galactic Dog

Dear Lady Friday,

Two carpenter bees battled each other to be the first to relay your message to me; they were so rolled up in their fight that a third slipped around them and delivered it in their stead! Your finely liveried messenger immediately became the subject of their combined attack and last I saw he appeared to be on his way to being de-livered.

It is indeed a fine day and the blistering heat is welcome. As you are aware, this is a damp area, ramp with springs and lush growth that sweat profusely. The moisture readily settles into my body where it pools and puddles, hot sunshine is a kindness that brightly bypasses and penetrates these areas, encouraging upward movement and flow; I deeply appreciate it even as I notice the withering effect of such intensity on my green friends. They tell me they are born to this, though they wilt under a hot gaze it isn’t long until they spring right back up, slightly darkened and tougher than before. Would that their resilience rubbed off on me!

It is a yellow and purple day fit for royalty to sweep through the fragrant violet speckled fields and fill themselves on the freely given perfume one last time. The lilac haze is quickly billowing away on breezes, where it mingles with cheerful buttercups nodding their golden heads as they ululate in a sea of glorious undulant green. You inquired whether I heard dogwood barking a few nights ago . . . I confess I did not for the only sound I heard before a cold wind lifted me off my feet and back inside to the comfort of copious cups of ginger tea and mustard oil rubs was that of coyote. Perhaps it was me you heard yipping in protest?

Your messenger has arrived and is seated on my cheek; her lemondrop wings folded neatly by her sides she urges me to blow my response up and gives me assurances that she’ll catch it and bear it to your haven in high places beyond this grove. I trust she speaks truly and eagerly await a reply, until then a fond farewell.


Blue Cosmic Eagle

My dear sweet Rose, I suffer not from the ailments that affect you mortals, though having heard through the eons of your travails I certainly do not envy your kind, and although I do sympathize I also rejoice without apology that I am above such afflictions. You must visit dogwood where she stands up on the hill behind your abode, she is a tribute to beauty adorned in a profusion of white petals swaying amidst a stand of stalwart tulip trees and cranky pines; by now you have surely heard her barking? She has a raspy, gruff voice strangely at odds with her pretty appearance! Until recently she was quite quiet, standing still in a state of abject loneliness, her limbs drooping down and sagging. I had my eye on her, as the sense of quailing and ailing she was emitting caught my attention similar to how spider’s catch flies in their web’s woven fine. I sent two of my flock to pay her a visit with sweet music . . . don’t let my brother, Wednesday, tell you differently, he can be annoyingly convincing but be on your guard, while it’s true he has command over many birds, the little one’s who sing are under my domain. Have you listened to cardinal’s sing? Dogwood was immediately enamored and tuned herself to the lilting melody with all her heart, which of course all songbirds in the vicinity noticed and soon began to congregate on her limbs, vying for her devout attention. Entranced, she listened deeply day and night and before long new tunes joined in chorus, crickets, ants, bees, hickory’s creak, pine’s whispering, high and low all around from stars above to underground she heard a joyous symphony and suddenly she felt so full, so fat, so fertile, she burst into blossoming dance followed by opening wide to bark where she stands still, up on the hill, the happiest dogwood ever. These moments hold nectar and pollen for those in your world is what my one and only sister, Monday, tells me; while she’s a creature of shifting temperament she knows what she knows when it comes to your world. Why dear Rose, I’m inspired, be a love and write her, she’ll be thrilled I’m sure, for when I shared with her your letter she said, “You’re always lucky in love Friday, everyone flocks around you,” and I swear I heard a tinge of jealousy mixed with yearning, neither of which I can abide, yes, write her beloved Rose, and do feed my messenger while he awaits your reply, he’s fond of nuts.

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