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