Wednesday, August 20, 2025, 50.9*, 78% RH, 0543
Soft orange gently wakes the day. Sensor lights blaze as the three explore the cut lawn. I speak reassuringly to Zayne who keeps looking for me. My free-standing cane falls over stopping everyone except the celestial choir ringing in my ears. My voice, the only one captured on the recorder. There is no “Linda” no “sound of falling cane” in its memory to display. It is a keeper of bird voices; there are others who know my voice.
Voice, human: an instrument of peace, or destruction.
Photo: LJ Austin
