the dog walk

The cactus, swollen with nourishment, is bursting many-scioned.

The mud choked creek divides against a soggy swath of grass: a heron perches on the ypsil, its beak proudpointing its gaze down the swollen avenue of liquid towards an indiscernible purpose.

It is the color of old earth, glistening with a sheen that is positively amniotic, and falls out of its pucker to be carelessly brushed aside with a wayward paw.

At rain’s end, the ground sends forth delicate white spores like daylight fireflies that aimlessly drift on the wind’s back.


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