Night is painted bright white; a hush builds, layer upon layer. Yes, it seems they did (those weather men) get it right. I watch the dog watch the footprints. She follows them with her nose. She sniffs deeply; she comes up for air. My mind is tired. I think about how I’ve become expendable. We all are expendable, but to feel the gamble rattle bones; it grinds a bit. Grinds isn’t correct; I mean, yes, there is a grating down, but it is more base. It tears at a flesh, that is neither plastic, nor robot. Blood paints interior walls red. The exterior blooms blue. Not periwinkle, or royal; imagine a corpse, two days out, frozen. The news reports a mystery. Neighbors offer, “she walked her dog on a thin, yellow lead. Bright yellow caught a curious eye. His eight year old mind wanted a new rope, so he pulled. Who knows how that shall revisit his dreams in 5, 10, or 20 years. No one ever found the dog.
The snow continues to fall. It razors the sky sideways. I watch the dog watch the snow. I watch snow sizzle as it hits grey pavement. We all are expendable. ~
Brendan
/ 2012/02/25The anxiety of the moment – perhaps more broadly, of the times – filters down through these lines, this prose walk-the-dog-on-a-snowy-night. a somewhat feverish meditation of what is and what may be. Seems like the dark river is running under all of our feet these days. – B
libraryscenes
/ 2012/02/29good to see you too, brendan ~
kateshrewsday
/ 2012/02/25Magic moment: I love walking the dog with no-one else around, he and I the only ones making the footprints. I love the snow ‘razoring the sky sideways”.
Raven of Leyla
/ 2012/02/26The places my thoughts go while walking my dog, she gives me moments to take my mind wandering while she leads me. Magic is a good word…:D
Rivenrod
/ 2012/02/27Moving and I feel sad. The ingredients of a dog doing what dogs do best, solitude, an echoing world . . .
Oh Angela . . .
RR