I wish I could take you to where I was standing. The dirt under my shoes where I stood. Head tilted back. staring up at an open sky watching a single hawk fly.

Imaginations turned it into more, as imaginations will do.

Feathers are brushstrokes on the sky and I always forget to look at it.

What was the color?

I liken it to my consistent failure at remembering names of people I’ve just met.

“Althea? My name is Ben, It’s very nice to meet you…”