dogtrax

A place to gather words before they get lost.

A percussionist pounding out beats on a tree; the woodpecker speaks

With its many folds, the peony grows; its small lobes, like a map, within

An old baseball, sunk into soil, never grows roots, only smudge and grime, remnants of past time

Still, some kid here tried;

Small fingers, folded on a stitched face of white thread and knitted lace, dug down into the earth with barely a trace of which game the ball even belonged to -

a home run hit to cheering mates or a hesitant swing, a loss that grates -

Some summer days race forward like a batter running base – you can bury the lede, if you truly believe in surfacing the story —

Other days slink, slow, a seed for song, a game of imagination most of us still play minutes before the sun fades away

https://youtu.be/NkZ6ygHdiX4?si=KK3hE6P00D_NvwPC

Seeped with gentle love, her mug of tea overflows; it's enough, for now

Small eggs in a nest; little possibilities in a state of rest

A city, beneath, teeming in constant motion: the work, never done

In slow-motion yawn, the tiger lily stretches then rests on the lawn

On a dreary day of drizzle, fog and grey clouds, hunker down with books

for Algot

Nested in farmland, in a ground home – easy prey - still, the skylark sings

The morning starts cool, the ground still covered in dew; wait for the warming