Documenting flourishes

In my house,

there’s lots of fuzz and woody things

and sometimes too much quiet.

In my lap,

I tend to fiddle with my hands

and fight the urge to describe everything.

In my yard,

a bird has walked across the snow,

leaving little prints that look like arrows.

In my cup,

I like to swirl hot liquids

that make my tongue celebrate being alive.

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