after "leaves"
years do odd things to identity. what does it mean to say i am that child in the photograph at kishamish in 1935? might as well say i am the shadow of a leaf of the acacia tree felled seventy years ago moving on the page the child reads. might as well say i am the words she read or the words I wrote in other years, flicker of shade and sunlight as the wind moves through the leaves.
-ursula k. le guin
[listen here]
i. picture of you madeline kenney/ ii. grass stains laura elliot/ iii. the bottom of it fruit bats/ iv. tea, milk, & honey oh pep!/ v. seven weeks ezra bell/ vi. mirror,mirror dr. dog/ vii. i don't know sjowgren/ viii. secret language katy kirby/ ix. old friend the walters/ x. grown up leith ross/ xi. something, in general ritt momney/ xii. other you steve gunn/
