What's in my hand?
A giant puffball, the first we've ever picked...and eaten.
What's not in my hand?
The other giant puffball kicked into a hundred bits by a previous ignoramus.
What's in my hand?
A blue jay wing feather, twinkling on the ground, bright as the summer sky.
What's not in my hand?
Two sleek copper roe deer, a hind and a buck, cutting across our path. Disappearing into the birch woods, whickering softly to each other.
What's in my hand?
Tiny wild raspberries, sweeter than mere rubies.
What's not in my hand?
The sleepy corn fields of Oxfordshire, nestling warmly under the sinking Sun.
A giant puffball, the first we've ever picked...and eaten.
What's not in my hand?
The other giant puffball kicked into a hundred bits by a previous ignoramus.
What's in my hand?
A blue jay wing feather, twinkling on the ground, bright as the summer sky.
What's not in my hand?
Two sleek copper roe deer, a hind and a buck, cutting across our path. Disappearing into the birch woods, whickering softly to each other.
What's in my hand?
Tiny wild raspberries, sweeter than mere rubies.
What's not in my hand?
The sleepy corn fields of Oxfordshire, nestling warmly under the sinking Sun.
