Roiling, rolling, rolling
Though the streams are swollen
Keep them doggies rolling
Michelin, Perelli, GoodYear, B.F. Goodrich; it doesn’t matter, we all try to keep rolling but we all end up in one of a few ways. Some of us go bald, then blow-out and followed by loud words, none of the are repeatable, but often repeated loudly. some of us just come apart and leave pieces on the highway. I’ve seen some of my buddies just get a bit thin, then lean against the garage wall till they just dry-rot. They often end up hanging from a tree to the delight of little kids that swing in them hour after hour. Finally after the rope wears out and the kids become way too large and old the tyres get flung into the beach in the hopes that they disappear. They never do, they join the other detritus and ruin the environment.
for Sunday Photo Fiction Nov. 29, 2015