I jotted it down in my black journal.
A ribbon and black elastic band to hold my place, the pages, buff and subtle are its lines.
Might be my favorite.
The one I discovered had a pocket in the binding on back cover.
Discovered it just as I’d folded the seven or so pages written in long hand when I had the time and before it faded away into the place of maybe.
Thoughts that made up Chapter Two.
But, three days, might be four, I walked in the middle of the day, thinking it was fall; but, not yet.
And I’d not considered the Chapter Three.
Melancholy, mind weary, pressed for time.
I walked at a time I felt unsure why, I should.
A hawk was steady and settled, led me to keep on, concerned over the asphalt, we found opportunity to walk in the grass of empty lots.
I decided he deserved it, picked up a stick, I’ll let him cool off in the pond.
It was a plan.
Then, the pecan tree I’d never noticed and the treat of walking down towards the pond; but, Colt, the big brown Lab was disinterested, lazy and uncertain of the plunge.
I waited and watched, a butterfly allowing my time.
To understand, to cherish what was waiting to burst forth, to flutter.
And the dog waited on the bank while I watched and decided,
jotted in the center, nothing else in the space around,
“I refuse to believe that