Gun shots across house lights through trees. Dusk comes on like a glove. Two crows, one bird.
Walking cloud banks trail the dog. Tangle slowly and laugh herself to sleep. In pockets of snowmelt and beautiful.
How sweet to talk with you still. Rain in December skies, no wind. We drove through a child, burned out mill towns, Massachusetts not Vermont.
I wink as I go trying not to be scared. Terrible kite-flying weather, yeah? Alone when I most need a dream of doors.
The umbrella, shots, a box of old holiday cards. All this anger after so many mountains. Tracking unfamiliar dogs to something else.
Going north through snow squalls and coffee. The doctor comes. Stars, bear scat, certain other songs.
Joy comes to the fool who predicted less. Learning how to pat a dog when it's asleep, last I heard.
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