Where It Always Smells Like Saturday Morning

I just can't stand not to put this last picture in, but what words to go with it? Perhaps to explain the picture? That's funny, because I don't have an explanation yet. Maybe this is it: Flying, blue as air, twirling like the tail of the wind, spinning like the color or a wooden top, stripes point me in the direction of my own north star, my own north is not anyone else's because my compass points are my tall, tall ears. Below is navigating a round lemon cucumber of a submarine, bobbing up and down with the waves, dipping below the surface to search intermittently for angel fish unseen from above. And land is never far away, but always as close as the near tree branches, the dewy green leaves and cinnamon bark as familiar and safe as the family dog, whose smile will be as dependable as the compass of my ears for always and forever in my memories. And that explains that.