Thumbs in my belt loops and I’m cutting my teeth

Do my arms signal like the flashing lights of plane wings as I cascade through decisions?

I’m one plum bite away from finding a strong northern wind to sail away on.

A violet cascade in the hallway

Paprika stained vignettes soaking up stories with sea salt and cursive lined notebooks

I had once asked in conference with witching hour companions of stride-breaking dreams.

Trouble is a town without exit signs.