under the sycamore Nick Saba Poetry April 2, 2019 0 Minutes A sticky sweet smell hangs in the air as the crisp breeze abates. A shepherd, some workers, and a white-tailed rabbit like actors in a silent film amble without rush. The sun blankets the morning dew. There is no beginning or end between sips of warm coffee. Share this:TwitterFacebookLike this:Like Loading... Related Published by Nick Saba I'm a writer who practices ultrasound. Poetry is my passion, and Irony is my best friend. On my free time I take pictures of people's organs to help radiologists make diagnoses. View all posts by Nick Saba Published April 2, 2019
