I walk my lhasa briskly, sharp wind stinging my face and ears. Bhakti stops to sniff a mound of snow on the brown lawn, a black fedora perched forlornly at its peak. From its sides two bare branches reach bravely toward the sun-drenched sky. Bhakti lifts his leg, poised like a ballerina, and gives his warm offering to the chilly ground, leaving golden traces on the pristine softness. We linger a moment in homage, then move on, noting life's impermanence, leaving the lump soaking slowly into the sod. When I am gone, who will mark my melting back to earth?
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"Classic"
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