Sitting all day with Dakota, my
sick old dog, cancer, comforted
by touch, my toe rubs her flanks
outside on her little rug
under redwoods, on the deck  
her favorite spot.
Fuzzy ears gather sounds,
rhythm, the day goes round.

Dawn is birdsong, dove and thrush
deer tread softly in the underbrush.

Comes the chatter of people
shouts, children at play
whine of machinery
remarkable the variety of motors
on a Saturday.

Light fades,
the return of birdsong
tap-tap, a neighbor’s wood shop
laughter echoes in the forest
scent of barbecue
summer pleasures.

Now midnight
all is hush
endless stars
Dakota remains at my feet, rubbed
by my toes as I chase away flies.

Patience, little fly.
Feel the breath from her nose?
Still alive while it blows.