No. 193 - Shuttlecocks & an Ashtray

The ashtray is full of crumpled butts and wooden match sticks.

The leaves are falling. Auburn oak leaves are scattered about, cypress trees are on their last leg before a long slumber.

My coffee is lukewarm. The red needle on the thermometer points to fifty seven degrees.

In an old flower pot sits racquets and shuttlecocks from the summer.

I am so tired. 46 years old. My feet hurt.

Looking for the right song in a playlist dating back to high school.

The black dog is chasing a tennis ball in my mind. He's harmless… for now.

Dreams of Jackson Hole still feel within my grasp, though my grip is getting weaker.

Lennon is singing "Mind Games." I couldn't do life without my poets.

The hummingbird feeder has a vacancy sign on it. The ceiling fan isn't spinning.