Musing

-1C/30F, overcast with a big Chinook arch in the west; Gusta looks so mangy with her hind quarters molting as we took our walk around the lagoon, or what’s left of it . . the drainage guys depleted it leaving only a collapsing ice-lid without a pond to support it

my new routine for publishing my newsletter on Monday’s is working well so far; to bed at 11 with it substantially written, then up at 4 to finish & publish – a little eerie being up when ALL the world is sleeping . . then I get to hear the early hum of bird noises, traffic & Gusta snoring

yesterday, without really thinking, I waxed poetic

with no thought my repetition of lines would inspire anyone to read them in sequence with any kind of rhythmic pace

or poem

which gets me thinking, about rhythm

like silver spoon or sense of smell

another thing I was born without

surely I have no musical talent

sense of timing much less rhyming

I am bic pen tameter was something

I failed to grasp in school

as badly as I missed the timing

things I failed to grasp in school

most were feminine

I’m working on my timing

if, on occasion I do anything poetic at al, it begins as flitting thought, followed by another – they a leap down a different fork tine, then knifing ‘round a corner

it is not about the cutlery

but about feasting

oh . . that makes me hungry

not starved, just hungry

Mark

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