there will be well into seventies temperatures.
bushes are loaded, well hanging in damp.
no birds, no squirrels, a black cat has been chased away.
eight a.m. sounds lonely and pure.
if I I had my old diesel boat Snort
i’d run it now to hear it chug. Thug, clung.
soft and regular. s slow nod. like buttermilk.
my ferry on the bay.
i’ll write a few lines,
read some of today’s book.
note some things we did.
look ahead toward our next adventure.
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