On stopping by Blackhoof on a sunny afternoon with Keith and Mocha

Winter showed a chink in her armor today.

“I hope you don’t mind dog shit,”? he says.

A rumpled black plastic bag
covers a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
Springer Mocha snuffles modestly.
I shove my skis in the back.

Later under a blue sunlit dome we load
sled to be pulled to the shack behind skis.
Tool bag, oil pan, oil, funnel, plug, filter, shop towels
and mystery revealed.
Ice cream pails full of Mocha grounds.
A winter’s worth mined from
Mocha brewing and dumping on Mocha’s beach.
Forget vanilla.
Forget pralines and forget cream.
Forget Kemps, and Ben & Jerry, too.
Think Mocha Choca Latte. Think Grande.
Do you need a permit to transport these
lovingly processed nuggets?
Clumped, frosty, perfect in the hand nuggets for whipping at ice cream trucks?

“�wait. Don’t touch. Such riddles have limits.
No, dump carefully
not in the garden but
in the woods where
small guys process microbe nuggets
for spring grass.

Springer Mocha, wet nose thrust in the snow,
stub quivering as we ski Blackhoof in our shirtsleeves,
percolates more mystery.

No, I don’t mind dog shit.

(Note: Special thanks to Vicki for the idea.)