holding a long stick the man
steps through leaves like
piles of hardened flame the
black lab leaps gleefully his
pink flag tongue hangs
from his red mouth white
teeth gleam he knows
the stick will arc through
the sky he'll run joyous to
fetch the long brown stick thrown
by the man in blue jeans and white
tennis shoes on a day warm and
windy cold front blowing
in from the north already you feel
little cold gusts and the last hard
pecan leaves go sailing sideways and
down while a black flock of sparrows flits
up into the grey sky his tail curving up
over his back, the black lab roots
in piles of brown and red leaves for his
stick, the man waits for him to find it, he is
looking out to the west, he is lost
in his thoughts, his thoughts,
they seem to be elsewhere
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