Gill Eastwood

The morning sun tastes like…

The morning sun tastes like a ripe fig plucked from the trees that formed a tunnel over our driveway as I wondered lazily through them to wait for the morning lift club.  Rolling over the waistband of my skirt to make my uniform less constraining.    Basking in the sunshine, sitting uncaring on the dew dampened grassy pavement watching for my friends to emerge from their sleeping house, preparing myself for the long day ahead.


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