A Little Frisson MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   A quiet little glade in the crisp fall season,

a crumbling fallen tree;

My dog springs upon it

and it collapses quietly;

Fingers run through crushed, rotten wood

cool cotton candy is the image appearing to them;

Moist and feathery, reddish, dark, caramel brown;

it drifts

through the air;

comes to rest in the clear, still water;

A crow-like call answered by a fellow blue jay,

it splits through the quiet conversation the gentle breeze,

and the leaves,


The leaves, green spattered with veins of red and yellow,

are living transparencies

upon the sun;

The shadow images wink to me at the passing of a bird overhead;

My dog, plows through the damp leaves and crisp twigs and

describes an asthmatic pig for me with her snuffling;

the peaceful tones of the glade are disturbed;

Toby, my dog, sits beside me,

I skim my fingers through the silky coat and frown

at the numerous burrs embedded in the liver brown and white fur;

The dog is bored, wanders off; I may relax;

Time passes;

Toby is called back, and the dank smell of rich mud permeates the air;

My little companion has enjoyed her time frolicking in the mud;

The heavy panting of my now mostly liver brown dog combines with

a pine breeze that parches the tongue,

and signals,

that it is time to head home for the iced tea of civilization,


the beating of wings snares our attention just in time to view a mallard and mate

fly for the drink offered by the creek;

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