Oct. 6/04 0620
My dog is talking. Thick-tongued melodic sentences punctuated with yawn howls. Had she the knowlege of consonents, perhaps I would understand. She has a story.
I ran last night. Not the orderly march home after work, but movement in the dark,
as though my mind was riding the wind, my legs the earth. Is it like that for the dog?
The words come. They settle themselves on the page. Not mine. Not the dog's. Just words.
To stop the flow, of the dog, of the words, would be to settle them, to allow them to fall.
I wonder. This is writing.