When great souls die,the air around us becomeslight, rare, sterile.We breathe, briefly.Our eyes, briefly,see with a hurtful clarity.Our memory, suddenly sharpened,examines, gnaws on kind wordsunsaid, promised walksnever taken.Maya Angelou, "When Great Trees Fall" excerpt For days now, I've hobbled around, tears falling on every inch of our yard and house, crying with great fury and … Continue reading Of elephants and lions and little birds