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Behind the Grindstone: Drip

By Bill Bunting

February 2, 2024

Words can be a cantankerous lot. There are times they come like a raging torrent so fast they are unable to be written down. At other times they come like a dripping faucet. Then there are weeks like this last one when the faucet didn’t drip. As the deadline for the article approached, I kept twisting on the knob but not a drop. So, I got up this morning before daylight as usual and decided to write what I saw and felt. Hopefully next week the faucet will run a stream.

The day has broken
Sunny and bright
The eastern sky
Is full of light

And it is warm
For this time of year
A hint that spring
May be drawin’ near

The meadowlarks
Are beginnin’ to sing
The way they do
In early spring

Why even a sparrows
Gatherin’ for her nest
In a hidden spot
That she likes best

But those who live
On the prairie know
We’re not through
With the cold and snow
And the wind, the wind
That will always blow

Somehow these thoughts
Brought a sense of dread
The day became gloomy
By the thoughts in my head

But then I thought
On this fine day
Why would I want
To think this way

A lesson learned
From the birds
As I listened to
Their warbling words

We don’t know
What the future may bring
But it’s a beautiful day
With a hint of spring
And along with the birds
We all should sing

At least, that’s the view here from behind the grindstone.

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