Sunday, November 6, 2011

Running Dog

I couldn't resist making an extra stop on the way home and giving Cheyenne one more airing on an old Flagler Bridge.







It was another in the series of perfect days we have been having all this week in the Keys. So perfect one could ride a bicycle on the adjacent modern Highway One and not break out in too much of a sweat.







Or one could go boating on a flat calm, sun speckled silvery sea.








Some few people were out fishing wrapped up against the wintery sun's rays. The sun has fallen appreciably lower in the sky by this time of the year as it's orbit sinks closer to the southern horizon (in the Ptolemaic world view).








Ptolemy or Copernicus notwithstanding the center of my world is revolving around my currently indestructible orange Crocs. I am waiting for them to disintegrate so I can start wearing my splendid bright new pink ones sent by Amanda in the Virgin islands but these orange ones wont break. I am told orange Crocs are no longer being made so my deviation into this odd color will be short lived apparently. Except they are indestructible.









Homeward plods the weary angler....from Gray's Elegy in a country church-yard...

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.



It is a bit of a liberty to compare a person in a center console to a man ploughing a field with a horse.


Which was my cue to go home before I bastardized any more poetry.



It seemed too lovely a day to waste it on making lunch, but I compelled myself to slave over a cold stove with my Labrador in eager attendance. She knows a soft touch when she sees me with food in hand.



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