Your poem, In The Well, reminded me of an incident when I was eight. As an eight year old child, I was playing with my Boston Terrier, Ritzi. All of a sudden, she disappeared into the ground! I screamed for my brother, who was fourteen at the time. It was an old well or sink-hole, about twelve or fifteen deep, with water, also deep. My brother climbed into it, and rescued my dog, who was paddling and splashing, going under, before re-surfacing! I had dressed her in doll clothes, and I'm sure it further hindered her ability to swim. I didn't think how close I came to falling in, as I had been walking backward, holding her two front legs. I don't think anyone would have heard me, had it been me, as we lived on a ranch, and my brother, cleaning in the barn, was quite a ways off. He told me later, that he had to listen close to the sound of my calling, because it may have been the wind, which is relentless here in Wyoming. At least my experience had a happy ending. I enjoy your writing.
Home (from Court Square Fountain— where affluent ghosts still importune a taciturn slave to entertain them with a slow barbarous tune in his auctioned baritone— to Hank Williams' headstone atop a skeleton loose in a pristine