Liquid number, digested every damn night.
At second yawn, sometimes 10
I crawl into bed
pulling covers over my head
hoping beyond dreams the sleuth is left outside.
Toes point westwardly, ready
to run at moments notice
where the winds dictate.
I hear the trees blowing off
in the distance, swirling
twister like
Approaching Pulling Approaching Pulling Approaching Pulling...
from every direction,
Dictation ain't such a bad thing, in the middle of a storm.
Every morning I rise, unkemptly
going no direction at all. The nightly storms melting in the rising sun.
