“Scooter, read this. It’s about you.”
Lickety-Split! Scurry-Hurry!
Shepherds ran into each other Stepped on other’s toes and tripped over sheep as they rushed to the village seeking a stable with a lantern still lit . , .
Off the leash he was! In the woods he ran! Crazy with joy he was as he familiarized himself with the campsite bank, some fifty or so feet above the Hood Canal shore.
Correction — sometimes one seems required. So it was that the final paragraph of #7 A Woman’s Brief’s got changed.
Suzie died yesterday. We who watched the inevitable were not surprised but, oh, yes we were. Just as I hate that the sound of the Singing Bowl leaves me, I hate that death sends a very real Self away from existence as we know it.
And so, in 2020, PineAweigh settled for sprints rather than distance running.
Wait! I have family, friends, and acquaintances expert enough in fields of politics, theology, ethics, finance, science, and social do’s & don’ts to turn statements of “seems to me” to “no question about it.”
A ROLODEX rests on a cupboard shelf in my writing room, a slender, tangible thing holding intangibles . . .
It was a cold nose touching mine that woke me, a small black nose at the tip of a fluffy, four-footed boy whose wide black eyes watched for mine to open.
For some good reason, in the dream that woke me, my job was to give Scooter Sublime away
This is the fIfth in a series of blog postings I call: “A Woman’s Briefs.” Snug, elastic thoughts frequently changed; fitting observations caused by something seen, overheard, read, experienced, resisted, observed, or in some way, seemingly worthy of attention. Today, it’s a slave ship.
SEE SCOOTER, leash flying free behind him, running wild in Blake Island’s massive meadow, the island with a strict “dogs on leash and leash attached to human hand” rule.