Henri prided himself on having a poet’s mind. As he walked Byron, his dog – No, Hound, he thought, Hound has a better ring to it – under the verdant trees and the cloud-strewn sky, he began to think about his life and metaphors. Passing under the shadow of one tree, its pink flowers drifting around him like dancing sprites, he spoke to his hound.
“Well, Byron,” he said, “I’ve never seen a poem as lovely as a tree.”
Byron didn’t appear particularly impressed by the quotation.
When they came to a branch in the grey pay, Henri pulled Byron’s leash short, stroking his chin thoughtfully.He stared from one path to the other with a keen gaze.
“Tell me, Byron,” he asked, “which looks like the path less travelled?”
Thoroughly disinterest in the answer to the question, Byron raised his leg and made a smell that even Henri had difficulty making poetic.
Word Count: 150
This is for Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Louise for providing the prompt photo!