Monthly Archives: June 2025

Lightward

Lightward

Only thirst,
and the knowing
that thirst lives everywhere.

Only hunger,
and the knowing
that hunger has no name.

Only breath,
and the knowing
that breath is borrowed.

Only time,
and the knowing
that time is shared.

Only earth,
and the knowing
that earth will outlast us.

Only this moment,
and the knowing
that this moment is everything.

For The Stars And All They Cover


FactSlap
The secret life of otters and their rocks.

Otters don’t just swim, hunt, and float. Some of them carry lifelong attachments — to rocks.
Here’s a pocketful of strange, stone-cold facts about one of the animal kingdom’s quietest love affairs:
• Sea otters are among the few non-primate species known to use tools — most often rocks to crack open hard-shelled prey.
• They have loose pouches of skin under their forearms, used to stash prized rocks and snacks.
• Some otters carry the same “lucky” rock for years — sometimes for life.
• Young otters don’t instinctively use tools; they learn by watching their mothers.
• Otters show preferences for certain rocks — usually flat, easy to grip, and rough enough to hold slippery prey.
• In parts of California and Alaska, researchers have found “anvil” stones reused by generations of otters — forming little otter dining stations.
• Otters have been seen tossing, juggling, and playing with rocks — behavior that likely hones their dexterity.
• Studies suggest stone use gives otters a survival edge, helping them access food few others can.
• One long-observed female sea otter in Monterey Bay used the same rock for at least five years.
• Not all otters use tools — the behavior is more common in sea otters than in river otters, and more frequent in certain regions and populations.

Just a Silly Phase I’m Going Through

where to buy disulfiram online The Leash Slips

The leash slips from my grip.

One second I’m holding the rules in my hand,
the next—gone.

She bolts.
Brown blur on cracked earth,
ears back, eyes wild.

For one glorious, rule-free moment,
she owns the park.
No crates.
No “stay.”
No clipped voice saying her name twice.

She runs like the thing she once was,
before bowls,
before collars,
before people with pockets full of biscuits
and so many goddamn rules.

And I stand there,
frozen,
half afraid,
half jealous as hell.

Because I know—
deep in the rib cage—
I would trade a dozen quiet walks
for one run like that.

And maybe,
maybe one day,
I will.