Most nights I can’t sleep. One night in August, with the windows wide open, the sounds of the wolves who live on the hill across the road come through the night with various degrees of clarity. The rest is history. Oh, except the drinking part. Poetic license. I drink very little over 12 months. Rarely would be the word. Please exercise caution if you do drink.
A Little Less Melancholy
The wolves were howling
On a clear summers night
Talking to each other
With contagious delight
I sat sipping on my whiskey
And she on her wine
When she said she felt
A little less melancholy
It was then I knew she would be fine
Copyright 2023by Bill Ferguson
All Rights Reserved
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