By J Kirk Richards

(January 29, 2022)

Hurry.

Must make the trek to downtown and its internet

just to check the mayhap freeze for tonight and beyond

and possibly cruise the aisles for Yassy, Bruce, Mike and more

and in a twist - so usual of me - I find a curb

to assay (instead of a millstone driven by wind)

and bounce my two-wheeled steed into a surfeit of sand and lonely sprigs suggesting

grass whereupon I now sport a bent shin

but I will wash with H202 and slather with concoctions after a severe scrub.

Hurry.

the library doors open and I grin.

Oh. Wait.

The backpack's upper shelf devoid of notebook and pen

and spelling dictionary in serious disrepair.

No deathless dribs today, my lovelies:

I will tack on the next ten-day weather predictions

and for my predeliction(sp?) attending the rest of February's Fare:

Usually we are past freeze-point my the 18th of this cruelest month, but I retain hope

for a sure way to whack feral cats and dogs' fellow-travellerfleas: I hide bitments for the rat-catchers both away from the crow-eyes who know I forgetthemnotaswell

and we all say shucks to the overhead skywriting bald eagles of which there may be as many as half-a-hundred extant nest in Central Florida's Seminole County (Sanford lost its chair but retains title to County Seat - watch your step, poop-alert!).

The eagles cruise the liveoaktops hoping to scare up lunch for their own just-hatched broods as death and life hand-in-hand give me chills enow knowing my two-legged relatives have plans for these bones beyond mine own - would I trouble you to take me out to a lowish bank on the Wild and Scenic Wekiva - alas, no whitewater rapids or falls despite the false bidness claim of four-foot (or was it six- or eight-? set off at the edge of a former cow pasture: thankkfully, the state (and so little of that to go around regardless of party or lack-thereof) forced a halt to the millions of perhaps billions of gallons of Floridan Aquifer artesianed up to entertain goofs of all degrees and dredgings at Wekiva Falls: thankkfully extant no mas!

Oh, yes: there I was - pleading my case to fund a feast for river otters, Florida bears be they black (or really brown) or the putative local panther of which we are assured there are no more...except some of us know better: just leave my carcass under a convenient bald cypress sapling. I promise to get tested for all manner of wrongs before passing on my liver and spleen and perhaps a delectable freshwater (St. Johns River) blue crab will take a morsel of my detritus found softly flowing in the eelgrass en route to The Atlantic. Or, at the behest of my betters lower me away in glory still sundering at Arlington's last slap at Marse Robert (E. Lee) whose old Virgina-side home became a national cemetery instead of a retreat for Miss Custis' newfound beau.

I could consent even for barbecue - of sorts.

Just burn me up.

And let the ashes fall into a bell jar

wannabe and when next a tidal wave from

a mid-ocean strike or ridge-burp cleansweeps this estuarial demense

I could go for that in a pinch.

But I really, really wanna fee Yogi and Boo Boo and friends.

(And now I exit to run the aisles in search of yet more books to pass the chill with my decoction of chili con frijoles y papas with mixed green salad and my own tangerine-infused vinaigrette. Hopefully back before the next HeatWave. J)

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