Lolling, rolling, yellow brown bumblebees, humid hot, itty-bitty birds twittering within green leaves, the big black cat sat on the white porch, his eyes half-closed. Each time he heard the bees buzz, feline flipping the bird [thumping his tail], splintered wood. Feathered chit-chat, corpulent cat responds, opening his eyes, BUT — the thick air was like a blanket. The black cat closed his eyes once more.
Contemplating Scrapple, careful to ignore the contents (A too well considered “cruise” can spoil the courtship!), contemplating Scrapple I see my Father’s countenance, calm, as he cuts the Scrapple NARROW; using the cast iron skillet to fry-up breakfast: Eggs, Scrapple, with a side order of Toast. He looks happy in that kitchen cubicle. Contemplating Scrapple, I smile because I see my Father.