Four Dogs On A Free Afternoon

Lemonade light washed over stones

we hiked through a burst of dry falling leaves 

from shadows in a shallow valley i pushed higher

autumn colors played tricks on me

old field stones sat waiting uphill

a home without walls 

just remnants now -- a cast iron stove, old ceramic utensils, and no one anywhere that remembers

the pug stumbles toward me and sits where mossy ground is warm

i tell him, if you want the sun, go up…

and we were up

a high point with horizon all around

wrapped in forest walls where the breeze steals my voice

I have not liked my words much lately, but I remember reading that even bad poetry , for example, is something.

What is creativity? Every day is a story. I remembered the way sunlight rippled on Lily's fur. The other dogs found comfort on soft moss or heat soaked earth where they stretched and sniffed autumn's breeze. Calling to Hershey, my voice vanished in the wind.

Solace on a simple day.

Going to hand out candy later and serve a few beers. 

Closing time -- a gentle neon low light, background blues and a glass of wine.

Solace on a simple night.