Coydog Chalcedony--More or less

   
   "Coydog Chalcedony--More or less"
   
   Cody wandered from his master Hamish, fending for a fight, not against a squirrel tail hanging from a Chevy Monza's rear-view thingamajig, the automobile armed with a furious 4, yet designed with the non-mesh of a V-8 transmission, and while only a four speed, the pugnacious pistol of shifting infrequently allows a man to do his job--get in, unload, and exit; plus, with high RPM levels, rubber is never burned enough, and NO dumb asses--this has nothing to do with carnal cravings, yet gravity praised, and a muffler that doesn't randomly ruin the Earth, for Christ spits His tobacco on Terra's Terrain, that One True God knowing:  Man resides within, and his is the foundation of which he treats and trusts, in a way.
   Cody wanted to mark his resonance, or make his situation know, his ALIVE--his praise of pondering the fields.  And as the F-18 fighter pilot from Sand Diego knows, as do all of us:  The King is in the Field, watching.  Where is man's science, when he has no axioms to identify; specifically, Cody ran and flew, four-paws, on interior instinct.