The sounds of whipping flame in the morning breeze.
Car tires hum across the street above.
The chime of the harbor mouth bell buoy.
My ring tapping on a bottle.
The Whippoorwill beckons to a trail. A new trail.
A life dead and rested demands new sparkly objects for Brahman.
As I tend the fire of yesterday’s burning, the puppy chews page corners – paged to be turned.
Orange flame hovers over.
Ashes are next, so play while it’s light.
Play like the dog you are.
Yes, and the smoke just goes where it goes.