A fluffy white dog.   Loyal creature to his master.

He glups at  the bottom of a six quart mixing bowl for the remaining inches of water.

He prefers to have his narrow rear hips stroked – he does not mind any pressure but is content at the fact that his contact of preference has been made.  He licks his master’s toes as a blow fly tries a forehead.

Sipping smokey mezcal -very good mezcal –  and contemplating eras of wholesome dispositions –   coping with your consummating your nuptials with minimal forewarning.

Oh, My Papa!

The light on the field changes and the shadows grow long on the hale bales, which look like distended musical notes that, having sipped too much sherry behind the curtain, fallen off their staff to sleep – still orderly, mind you – in the field behind my house.

The light on the field changes and deepens – a metaphor for life  itsself?  Shadows grow longer and the time of light is limited, but somehow wondrously more savoury and rich!

Appreciating thing like light on a hayfield.   Checking on the cranberries everyday and marvelling at the sweet, small, subtle changes  that occur in a short walk over weeks, months, years…

Ahhh…..

Artists are the soul of a society.

Leon, Nicaragua

Lion. Nicaragua

An old capital

Marble lions, the hope of the city

Proud

Fierce

Ferocity embodied.

 

In the cathedral is the tomb of Ruben Dario

THE poet of a nation

On the tomb is a marble lion.

It’s heart

Is broken.

 

The dog growls at it’s master

Writing about loss again?

I am right here.

Right now!

 

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