Dog announces her
recovery from a bout of fatigue by sneaking next door to scent herself with
chicken poop. The day is all crisp blue and white like a toothpaste commercial.
This morning the washing is clipped to lines that sparkle ice and each garment
emits a cloud of steam. Yesterday we thought that the sky had found a store of
winter at the back of an old snow cloud, and we had no expectations for this
brewing warmth. In celebration, windows are opened, carpets swept. Washing is hung
out wet and brought in near dry: it only needs an evening of airing out. For a
finale, out goes a fresh washed sofa throw. It is not fetched in till after
dark. The faux fur has an ice crunch to it and tiny beads twinkle under
electric light.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
Comments
Penny the Jack Russell dog and modest internet superstar, is rather fond of fox droppings :)
Very poetic, as always. But no haiku yet, so as Schwartzeneggar said, "I'll be bock!"