I feel that I've used up all my prose over the last few days. I'm not a poet, so I'm not sure where that leaves today's post. I am committed to keep posting daily, at least until decide to stop doing so. I guess I could list some things. That'd be good, right?Things in the yard (paired up to create interest):
fenceposts and a hose reel,
old clothesline posts and a brown dog licking my arm,
a black dog sleeping under the shady bush and freshly cut grass,
bugs and weeds,
chewed up sticks and tennis balls,
bean plants and a yellow-handled trowel,
sunshine and a gentle breeze,
a bowl of water and an air conditioner humming,
shadows and blue flowers,
butterflies and a brown dog dragging a big stick,
panting sounds and clover,
vapor trail above and a shovel hanging on the fence.
Why is it on the fence? We put it there - it has a little hook on it. It's not that "shovel" hasn't made up it's mind... it has... it's a shovel and it is on hand for shoveling. It is quite literally on the fence. It was my grandfather's shovel. He's gone now. I don't think of him every time I use the shovel. But I do think of him every time I see a freight train full of tank cars go by with GATX on them.
old closet doors and a black dog chewing grass,
dragonflies and activity,
thoughts and distance,
heat and time,
a black dog drinking water and a jet overhead,
perspiration and longing,
a smile and a lick,
flip flops and pale skin,
slow motion and a forest of trees,
a useless antenna and dogs ready to go inside.
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