A Little Frisson

   A quiet little glade in the crisp fall season,

a crumbling fallen tree;

My dog springs upon it

and it collapses quietly;

Fingers run through crushed, rotten wood

cool cotton candy is the image appearing to them;

Moist and feathery, reddish, dark, caramel brown;

it drifts

through the air;

comes to rest in the clear, still water;



A crow-like call answered by a fellow blue jay,

it splits through the quiet conversation the gentle breeze,

and the leaves,

enjoy;

The leaves, green spattered with veins of red and yellow,

are living transparencies

upon the sun;

The shadow images wink to me at the passing of a bird overhead;



My dog, plows through the damp leaves and crisp twigs and

describes an asthmatic pig for me with her snuffling;

the peaceful tones of the glade are disturbed;

Toby, my dog, sits beside me,

I skim my fingers through the silky coat and frown

at the numerous burrs embedded in the liver brown and white fur;



The dog is bored, wanders off; I may relax;



Time passes;



Toby is called back, and the dank smell of rich mud permeates the air;

My little companion has enjoyed her time frolicking in the mud;

The heavy panting of my now mostly liver brown dog combines with

a pine breeze that parches the tongue,

and signals,

that it is time to head home for the iced tea of civilization,

but;

the beating of wings snares our attention just in time to view a mallard and mate

fly for the drink offered by the creek;