Buttercups twist open
Above the traffic
As Haley sits watching
I drop my thoughts
But cling to her leash

Moving as a unit
Towards the studio
Using a language of tugs and pulls
Smelling wet grass,
Drain pipe openings, and deer poop

Words would only degrade
The telepathy our routine encodes
She settles in the yard
Now at work
I start my day sketching the Buttercups

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