A crevice of light in the sky.
The Slavic man shouting into his cell, outside his car, in the night, echoing.
Slush.
Our dog gamboling in drifts spindrift snow dolphin leaping.
Wet pavement black.
Leaps of faith that say, "This is this; exalt!"
The pebble in my hiking boot that turns out to be a grain of (rock) salt.
Biblical pillars of shoveled detritus.
Naked branches.
The missing chickadee.
Muzzle in the shards of crystalline alabaster.
January.
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4 comments:
You are a brilliant writer.
It was good to hear from you today, PK.
Thanks, Patti. Likewise. Like, wise.
It's not the grain of rock salt that gets me, it's my socks bunching up at the bottom of my moon boots. I kind of lost touch with everybody. Been doing my thing--whatever that is.
Could I wax so poetic...
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