No. 193 - Shuttlecocks and 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.