22 May

I would write, But the dog Who is not a lap dog Is in my lap anyway Watching me so intently That he does not hear the squirrel Pilfering from the feeder Or the chipmunks, also, Squeaking for a place at the table. This plaintive-faced dog Plants four warm paws where he can And settles into my body, His heart pulsing against my thigh As birds awaken into song Titmouse, sparrow, robin, jay. We wait for the large bird We cannot see well enough to name Rise with a single dark note To shade the sky with his wingspan As he flies into the sun. This symphony is prelude. The dog will not let me miss it, And I won't write about it.