A slow Sunday, we're just hanging out in front of the Grind, chatting. Bad music from the bar a few doors up makes me feel better about my own abilities.
A little poetry to keep the fire going:
bulldog on the bricks
in front of the Daily Grind
lazy summer night
familiar faces
regulars greet each other
a Fells Point evening
heart stretches miles
waiting for her to return
anticipation