Snorkeling, for Dogs

Water smells like fire
Far enough back in the sinuses
Like carpet and putty and fur
Look like food, but taste like you
Or something like you
Skimming by the bowl
Down below the line
Where the water
Smells like fire.

Shallows of Winter

Middle of the week, pouring rain, wet dog underfoot, and not cold enough to be worth the long sleeves I have pulled up to my shoulders. None of these contributes to the latest short story that's been percolating and that's probably a good thing. That story is also about rain, but more about the threat of rain and the difference between something that threatens your idea of yourself and your actual person. There was a story...okay, it was my story...about aliens who were on a trajectory of discovery just to see what was there at the furthest point of their fuel supply. That's my writing. What's there over that last little paragraph? Where's that story about the Moon and the woman who got lost and the old man who rescued her? Do I have enough fuel to see it close up and write down what it is, or will I only see it from a distance?