MOJO (RUN AND RUN AND RUN THEY DO)

Some far off birds singing and talking to one another and perhaps to the day. The beginning, end, and middle of the path are barren in that there are no folks. Maybe people travelled northwards. It’s a perfect day there and the wildflowers literally sway a bit in the breeze. Nothing caustic, lurid. Instead, all is bright. The puffy clouds sit in the deep blue firmament. A farmer has even created a new path that circles around the outskirts for dogs and people and shape and design. He is not there then. But his work is. Like the unseen seer, or the watchmaker of creation. He is in all his creation, is his creation. No frogs or snakes, coyotes or even squirrels are seen. Maybe they rest. Lots of insects. Out in the wide fields there is not much escape from the sun save for a bit of shade in the tall grasses green under some old Pines. Far away are cities. Far away is the troubled psychic discord of too many people. Run, run around the wildflowers. The larger dog takes off in a spring. He has found his moxi, verve, daring, enthrallment, magic, movement, momentum, mojo, and majesty. The other, his faithful and pure hearted sister, takes off after him. Run and run and run they do. 

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