Sunday, February 24, 2013
Washington Street
I smelled the first skunk of spring this week, on my way to the Mirror, pungent in the frozen snow fields. A first exploration out to test the food supply, scout out den entrances newly melted out, cruise for a little skunk nooky.
And the round world shifts a little more, the South Africans getting maybe a first haunting sense of waning days and cooler breezes, while up here we desperately sniff the air for a hint that we could pull through this one once again, notch another winter on our belts - them of us as wintered over, that is. We musn't forget that some are in the cold cold ground.
Massa and man, currying favor at this last minute with whatever gods may be, wondering as the lights flicker out if in fact these souls are unconquerable or if that was just another cheap advertising trick, that the huckster god slipped a disclaimer into the fine print and rapid talk, while the images persuade us of an eternal romp, tails lifted high, spraying the bold world boldly, for life, as it were.
And the round world shifts a little more, the South Africans getting maybe a first haunting sense of waning days and cooler breezes, while up here we desperately sniff the air for a hint that we could pull through this one once again, notch another winter on our belts - them of us as wintered over, that is. We musn't forget that some are in the cold cold ground.
Massa and man, currying favor at this last minute with whatever gods may be, wondering as the lights flicker out if in fact these souls are unconquerable or if that was just another cheap advertising trick, that the huckster god slipped a disclaimer into the fine print and rapid talk, while the images persuade us of an eternal romp, tails lifted high, spraying the bold world boldly, for life, as it were.
