On my thigh, I stroke the dogs forehead.

A velveteen appledome pillow,

marveling at how soft

it is,

and how she takes no exception

that I do so.

Just the two of us.

My fingertips summoning all the love

they can muster.

She curls into a ball with

corresponding sigh,

soul content in dreams,

hallucinating shapes and shadow,

Sleeping Beauty tree twigs snapping

underfoot and under paw,

birdsong,

mud puddles,  

frogs found, killed, and eaten

in the algamuck.

My voice and whistle stop commands

providing the directions.

The quaking yellow cottonwood leaves

raining down on us

as soft as she is.




Sara Fielder © Nov 2023