When a lumberjack finds a glittery egg

I was in a deep green forest last night. A lush moss-covered island with a house on the tip. Surrounded by a dark creek. A small wooden house or cottage adorned the edge, the island was just big enough to fit it.

Pat and I met up with an old friend and her new life and friends. We drank and it was her birthday. Even after not seeing her for almost 10 years, I felt terrible for forgetting that it was her birthday.

We went out into the moss and the grass and the deep woods to find treasure. They had all explored in this way before, but I hadn’t and was unsure what they meant by treasure, but knew immediately when I came upon a pink glittering egg.

*ooooh, coffee is ready*

I collected as many eggs as I could carry. Some of them were cloth, some of them were knitted and balled up like used socks. But they were the largest and most colorful eggs I had ever seen. And I couldn’t carry all of them in my arms. 10 maybe. 10 may have been the limit. 10 poems.

But I was exploring and discovering them instead of worrying whether or not I could protect them.

And Pat had huge peck muscles. He looked like a photoshopped lumberjack model. And his shirt was open and his chest was a muscle shine. Yum. And someone asked what he looked like before (as in when I first met him when we were 18). Skinny like twigs, I said.

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