dogtrax

Finger rubs off ink, the words of the newspaper fading, forgotten

In the fireplace, wood crackles in snappy time; the heat of the beat

A wind dance romance; each branch leaves its love to chance, and wild circumstance

for Algot

Not rutabaga - but rooted, with bright white flesh and greens: the turnip

Dawn, on a clear day, breaks so gentle, unfolding in iridescence

Boreas howling, as if a tempest – a rush of mythical wind

We wait beneath dusk for moon rise – a slow turning toward heavenly eyes

Their sticky fingers find each other, covered in pine sap and needles

The cold wind's bitten our fingers, wrapped in mittens, but never enough

Despite Autumn's change, one tiny flower endures; act of resistance