On a cold morning
with thoughts scampering
in and through, words formed
and then forgotten,
Luna and I walked
and mused, then stopped and
paid attention. We
saw poetry on a
twig, in frost-covered
grass, and flashing off
a mallard’s green head.
We heard it in the
bird song, and sniffed it
in the sharp, clean air.
untangling the web 
January 10, 2023 at 10:04 am
Love this, Betty, especially “poetry on a twig”.
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January 13, 2023 at 12:31 pm
What a sensory-filled poem, Betty. You made me smile.
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