This was a failure. It looks like a Halloween picture a second-grader might do, but without the childlike charm. Still, there’s an element or two that struck my fancy and that I may try to pursue later.
Now joining the ranks of Dante, Milton, Poe, Whitman and Dickinson is
our very own Sarah Potter, who has published her debut collection of
poetry! You can find out more about her book via the link below.
There’s not much behind this. I read a small chapter on goblins in a book on legends from the Rhine and then turned on Dayton’s only twenty-four hour classical music radio station. The pencil went for an amble while I was thinking of goblins and listening to Bach. This is the result. It’s nothing, really. It’s only A Minor sketch. Sorry.
There was a terrible storm that night. I found him the next day, more dead than alive, and half-carried, half-dragged him home. It didn’t take long to nurse him back to health and we wound up as inseparable companions. After all these years I still recall every detail of the night he died. Nature provided only a slight, soothing drizzle that time. I was the one who supplied the deluge. I never wept so long or so hard. And it wasn’t really for him, I knew that even then, since he was now so old and diseased that each day was only a misery and, for him, death was a mercy. No, I cried my boyish tears only for myself, for I knew I would never, ever find another dog like old Shep.