Sunday, October 17, 2010

Log Three

The stream trickled warmly past the black leathery edges of the puppy mouth stream. The saliva waters churned as they flowed from the bed of the stream lined with the ever-lapping tongues of eager greeting puppies.
To feel a rock on the shore is to find sharp milk teeth of weaned dogs, cast to the tufts of mange weeds growing into spits and bank.
The head of the stream is split by a single mound of golden fur. Like an upholstered boulder set with a large golden eye that swerves to see passing visitors. The waters will bubble and froth should the eye see you.
The tongues lapping nervous loving greetings with gurgled yips.

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