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morningporch:

I’m beginning to distinguish individual locomotives by their whistles. The majority merely say “look out,” but a few almost manage “I am.”

She sits, limp paw raised.

My hand gently seeks what hurts.

Thorn out she runs off.

Empty nesting box

Were the Ospreys blown away?

Violent thunder storm

Reading Walt Whitman

Two does break from the pond bank:

Sun-dappled June woods.

Dogs in the thicket

While Brere Fox lopes down the road -

Treats them like giant pups.

Through blue silk, her thigh,

Brushed by the back of my hand,

Scorched in memory.

In dreams I prowl

Through streets and dark corridors

Stalking my sweet prey.