Paw Play

sometimes staring at a wordless emptiness of white hesitant fingers hover over keys like a fox ears over snow It's there reflecting in time's vibration smelling of salt and tar Lines twisted taut by steady wind firmly anchored at full sail Lights flash erratically through shouldering smoldering clouds Then thrusting forward on the turn of running tide Anchor lines severed as one by two well swung axes Left to float loose like yacht club moorings As the ship heels and dances over slower whitecaps Free as a hunting hawk and just as deadly Sometimes the rawness of aggressive creativity has fingers tip on wrong keys twisting wording and thought lines in frantic search for continuity. Sometimes she wallows on following seas bilges sloshing in frustration as the helm sluggishly stubbornly refuses to obey Other times the winds die and fog consumes all thoughts in clammy clutch of cold deadness Where in hell is that damned coffee?