All flesh is like grass, all its glory is like the flower of grass.
The sun was shining and there was a cool breeze from the lake. Cookie and I joined the crowd in front of the piccolo man on Tuesday.
The grass withers and the flower falls, but the word of the lord endures forever.
He didn’t talk about the honeybees. When he finished talking I contemplated whether to approach him. The crowd formed a buffer, three feet deep. I tried, half-heartedly, to push through the crowd, but when I bumped into a girl and caused her to drop her bag, I lost confidence during the mild commotion.
Cookie led me back to the House. On the way, we found Bosco playing guitar in the raspberry patch. He had written a new song, which he played for us. It sounded like it came from 1968, the year the piccolo man was born. (That still isn’t important.)
Who are the honeybees? Yes, who are the honeybees?
