One hundred and four degrees are flocking to our drought. The cloud arrives mid morning and wilts everything except my desert willows. These young and verdant trees, not willows at all, drink away the pure heat. Then there is the tomatillo, another heat drunkard, who looks to be promising me much fruit. Is there a better word than "tomatillo"?
And the blogger tenwordsandoneshot invited me to participate in his projekt. It says, let's look at the paintings later, after we see the stinky artist in their cave.