All Before Seven

Waved to the pigeons on my ariel. Ate a simple breakfast. Jumped up and down because I feel fine. A good start to Friday.
More later...

Later...

Here is something I wrote last night.
I call these out of the blue pieces, my automatic writings. Maybe the spirits of dead poets come inside me, because they long to see their 'work' played out amongst the living. Or maybe I just have a colourful imagination. Whatever it is I love nocturnal visits.

-The delicate Japanese Maple eyes its mighty Conifer neighbours. It decides it's the salad amongst the meat.

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-The blackbird with buttercup beak pokes incessantly hoping to dig out a living lunch.

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-The tortoiseshell cat next door turns into a great dancer as it leaps from fence to bin to windowsill.
His paws tapping out a choreography with dexterity and panache.

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-He throbbed like a giant throbbing machine
dripping greasy oil and water
gushing, he showered her with his grade one juice,
It got her going.