poem of the day March 24 

And sometimes

those beats

were just down

the street

jiving in

some kind

of song

They were

twisting the roots 

off some fine

looking spruce

as the sun

rose over the morn

Their beautiful

dance was 

only by chance

Spontaneous 

as spontaneous

can be

All was gone

in a flash

run out of gas

Until Alice 

appeared with her tea