dogtrax

Coffee mug tremors with soft wisps of steam; we dream in deep November

for Algot

An abandoned lawn dons its winter coat of leaves and small broken sticks

At the water's edge - withered reeds, water lilies - not a frog in sight

A small light flickers in rhythm in the distance, and we stand together to watch it glow, wondering on the soundtrack

Noticing a leaf, yellowing, among others scattered on the ground

Ice inkers at night leave traces everywhere; tiny frost sculptures

In the dead of night, – a noise – a beacon of light startles us in fright

On Resonance Of Sound

Last night, we lay dreaming beneath the breath of the world, an Aeolian Harp shimmering, uneasy and unpredictable

between the silence, sounds split within intake and exhale – maybe we're all just poems, waiting to be written -

For when the winds bend in, unbidden, from a horizon line where the day's kissed the night, even though the heat resists,

the cool air danced by itself along paper-thin strings strung across an old wooden box we'd left on the windowsill,

just for times like this;

We might even have heard the harp's song in tandem, leaning in to listen together, our ears touching with reverberations

and I remember you humming a couplet, as I drew in a breath where your words touched mine, in rhyme: our voices, harmonized:

the best song yet

If Monk hadn't hesitated, and if Mingus hadn't wandered, if Miles never shifted, and if Bird hadn't listened, if Chet hadn't been so saddened, and if Billie hadn't struggled, the wind might still have whistled, as it so often does, but maybe it would have been whistling in another key

inspired by Steve

Etching art on glass, frozen moments of night pass into memory

for Algot