The aspen watched from a distance as the sharp teeth of a chainsaw cut cruelly into the weathered bark of the old sycamore.
He watches me from over the barred iron gate as I make my way to work each morning. I can tell by the shape and thickness of his arms, as he flexes them for me to see, that he works out. An exhibitionist, he waits to greet me on my walk back home, too. He flexes, and I smile. Each time I see him I can’t help but wonder: will I ever posses such strength… Read More