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 neighborβs 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.