Message at the DepthThis time in the box, we have been gifted turnips. They are white, a soft, luminous white, a perfect white. There is a depth to their lustre, like cream, or skin, and they smell of snap and the clean air of Autumn. They speak of the season, and are absolutely lovely.
They have sent to us apples, too, a kind I did not know before. They call them of the kind goldrush. They are spotted and ashed, and glum with a matte skin. They are nothing to look at. Inside, they are crisp and firm and achingly white, sharp and true. They have a heady apple taste of sweetness under those thin skins. They go well with cheese. They are wonderful with cheese.
They sent us a jar of something.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.