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
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