Old Scratch lingered in the water, a rust-colored frying pan. The word did at last arrive but it sounded like static. As August ends, nothing like a whisper.
In the bracken, a tiny horn. Fairy beds sparkling with dew. A moose print more likely a horse but where's the balance.
This and that, of which the welter is comprised. Thanks but I've got lots of Hansels, said my inner Gretel. Hauling branches to the fire pit while a dozen chickens look on curiously.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He exhaled noisily, scaring the fish. The apple core bobbed, faded from view, like most dreams.
I mean nine - is that right? The porcupine lumbered up the old ditch unhurried, his ass wobbling like water balloons. A good August for haying, if somewhat unexpectedly.
I can't escape the piano notes that your voice contained, even when I dream. Sadness defined then as what lost embrace, with time running out.