It’s morning still
Sunday

My old girl
is curled up tight
at my feet
lightly snoring
her doggie snore

It sounds like a purr
like contentment

The wild eyed Springer
has gone in search
of a bed
without stacks
of partially read books
piled too high
notebooks
with rows
of sentences
never completed

It is not quite spring
and not quite winter
and I am not quite me