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Here are the mini-poems written over the last three days.
January 12: A black-capped chicadee sits
deep inside the forsythia
near an abandoned hummingbird's nest--
barely visible even without cover of leaves--
while the cat watches
and waits.
January 13: Rain pelts the windows,
streaks down the glass,
puddles in mulch.
A chickadee seeks shelter
beneath the eaves, its feathers
wet, on end
like my hair after a shower.
January 14: Snow skips on the wind
swirls and circles before landing.
The wind whips whitecaps on the pond
reminding me of bleak winter days on the lake
back home.
January 15: I am startled to see
a young fox
poised to strike.
A beagle barks.
The fox retreats
and so do I,
relieved not to witness
a murder.
Hey, I never claimed to be Robert Frost!
Well, that's all for now, folks! Tomorrow I'll be back on schedule and back in the studio. The recent cold weather and snow made me want only to snuggle by the fire with a good book. Or take a nap.
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