It’s fingers, toes, and threads of
life forced out through the movement of the brain stem to pick out the best way
forth for the body to exacerbate its lead.
My thinking body frame is only a
piece of the puzzle. There’s more, for when I maintain a momentum that flows
instead of ebbs, meanders instead of leaves, and perpetuates the specificatory
nature of who is inside…
“Meow,” says my cat, Recinda.
What has that to do with anything,
you might ask. Everything, for it means that I heard it, picked up on it, acted
on it, responsively gave back, and am nourished by it.
“Whoooeeneya,” says my horse,
Wyndham.
How is it that I can transform my
hearing a voice to that which is so rich with life. When I pick up on something
that has to do with ‘love’, a transference of energy such that my body and mind
are in interaction with each other, a mention that there might be something in
it for me, then. My heels kick up, my contemporariness leads to placating my
inner resolve such that there is motion, transitoriness, inflation, chronic
joy!
If I happen to whisk myself by my
goat, Balentine, and she hears the whoosh of the mental state of things as
other than balentinian, meaning scrumptious, delicious, anticipating more than
is right for a physical being to have happen in any space of time, there is a
wandering sense that things are not as they should be. And Balentine, bless
her, will take to a running leap and land dead in front of me:
“What on earth are you doing to
yourself, may I ask you, Claris?”
“Balentine, how on earth can I ever
thank you enough?”
“Claris, I thought that you would
never ask in a million years.”
“Balentine, may I conform to your way
of thinking? Hummm, I feel so much better now.”
“Claris, see that you do.”
Now, if it were Virginia, our goose,
it would be all over the map, for she is a Wentworth. If there is something to
go for, it’s worth her time and energy.
“So, Claris, if I were you, which I
am not, and if there were more to talk about, which there is not, I might
simply have a cold drink out of the faucet.”
And that’s how things sit for
Virginia Wentworth.
“Still, I wouldn’t mind some
understanding about Gil. He tends to roam about with nothing to say to me. Gil?
Gil? Claris, you try and talk to him.”
“Gil, what is it about your nature
that speaks volumes, and yet you are of few words?”
“Claris, that’ll do. And one more
thing – I don’t mind being discerning.” And he waddled off, wading into the
pool, being discerning.
“Oh, Claris, how can I find my way to
the kitchen? It’s mealtime.”
“Gretchen, that’s a good question.
I’ll find out for you.”
Meanwhile, Gretchen goes about
looking for scratch.
They bust up laughing. It’s a great
way to spend time on the farm.
The End
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