The Wood Pile

The number rattles around in my head like dried paint chips in an empty can.

Ideas roll into corners of my mind and wobble to a stop: rhyming colors! a cantina full of pajamas! a club for broken toys!

Orion rises at the end of my street during my evening dog walk leaving light pebbles on the window ledges that will be gone by morning.

Chunks of split cherry wood season in the wood pile beneath my deck. Some, like the best thoughts, are iron hard and ready for the fire. Others are full of sugar ant trails and are light as summer moss.

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