Being Pulled In Three Directions

My artistic side is begging to run into the studio and paint up a masterpiece. My dance-y side is not ready to sit still one more minute. We are sick of sitting. How much more sitting can we take? I pry my behind out of my recliner and go outside. It is a surprisingly mild day for December I do not even need a coat as I fill my six birdfeeders, throw some sticks onto my campfire, and walk a hundred yards to take corn to my deer. On the way back up the yard I get a poem idea. It is brutal, showing how much I detest snares and traps. I am a hunter’s daughter, so I know well of them. My dad was a furrier too, but I will not go into that. My mystical side is calling for a nap. The dog is trotting alongside me hopefully. A connissour of naps, she is always ready. I go into the art studio to try to figure out my next step. Painting now, and quite happy with a prone dog, lying on the floor next to me after drinking my dirty paint water.