Rural crime

I just watched a murder.

Out behind the dilapidated barn, the rotting one that’s moldering its way into oblivion faster than an old writer’s body. The barn’s deep shadow is broken only by narrow sunbeams filtering through the gaps between the dry, rotting planks.

I stumbled around the corner of the barn, whistling, on my way to feeding the chickens. On the fencepost was a single avian that flew as I came into view. Just a dark winged spec receding into the sky, until the danger had passed.

Then he returned, with the rest of the crows in his murder.

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Hot fudge boogie

My last attempt at poetic form
Was greeted with resounding scorn
Verse purist gatekeeper
Did her undies creep ‘er?
And so from poetry I am forsworn.

(The audience surely won’t mourn.)

A quote from Chaucer here, not the real Chaucer, but the Knight’s Tale version. His best line: “I will eviscerate you in fiction.” I don’t like Gatekeepers.

But why so serious?

What I do like is Ice Cream. My honey-bunny has agreed that this Valentine’s eve shall be spent on the high-caloric consumption of delicious, cream-gooey banana split goodness.

They’re a wonderful invention of the confectioner’s art. Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry (three of my favorites). Bananas, nuts, fudge, whipped cream…what’s not to like?

Oh noes, the calories.

Worth an occasional indulgence. Grant me an indulgence, your Holiness? Ah, thank you, here’s your silver florins.

Yes please, ice cream parlor soda jerk—what are you guys called in the 21st century, anyway?—I will have another.

Write an ode to someone or something you love. Bonus points for poetry!

The Pontiff just loves Ice Cream, I’m certain.