A writer’s walk is more fun than a run. So, I stroll.
Indecisive, I can’t choose a favorite.
My focus dwells on a flaming shrub,
Tear drop leaves weep with agony in an impassioned garden.
But for a sunshine tree shooting rays in all directions,
Dark bark, contrasting a new black.
Or a round down hill, my gaze wanders up a rainbow landscape,
Vegetation mounts in a salad of tomatoes, peppers, carrots, bits of broccoli,
Almond sprinkles…all foliage.
A short season,
Stems extend showmanship of great glory,
hovering in hospice.
Their display crunches and applauds in the wind.
Scents, redolent of fireside chats,
cushioned in sentimental marshmallows.
I’m aware of bear. Food is scarce at peaks.
This fall, Smokey forages lower, near humans.
I hear a loud scary scurry. A squirrel sounds four legged cacophonies.
I feel someone staring and perceive correct.
Two ruminants stand stock straight as lawn ornaments, blending in beige brush.
I assure them in a doe a deer voice, I am no threat.
Blue sky is brushed in white wispy strokes, like a Ralph Lauren textured wall, (in faded denim).
Forty seven in the morning over coffee, seventy-seven degrees, at tea.
Suppertime, the sixties host the mercury guest—sipping cider from amber cups.
Autumn is a pause,
hesitating between climates of hot and cold.
I think I’ll go home to brew pumpkin bisque,
And pen a poem.