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Creek Running North

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December 01, 2004


This morning, frost delineated each vein in each grass blade. Dead plane tree leaves scuttled across the park like Prufrock's ragged claws. Zeke's breath steamed.

Framed in rimed plane tree leaves, a mourning dove's left wing lay palm up. The grass frost had melted away just a quarter inch from its margins, a perfect drop-shadow. A chain of bone, humerus and scapula, emerged from the wing and bore a bright red bead aloft.

A perfect image, and an evolving one: a bright, happy dog put foot on phalanges. The snap of bone echoed. What a cacophony of smell it must have been! I pulled him off the wing. He forgot it within seconds.

Posted by Chris Clarke at December 1, 2004 05:14 PM TrackBack URL for this entry:

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decorative line of bighorn petroglyphs


I once had a 1960 VW pickup truck I named "The Buford," after the ship on which Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman were deported from the US. About ten years ago a woman walked into my office asking if I wanted to sell it. She was very cute. I gave it to her.

What were we talking about again?

Yep, Zeke's a dog.

Posted by: Chris Clarke at December 2, 2004 08:27 AM
decorative line of bighorn petroglyphs