.
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.
.

I adopted Agnes six years ago today.
She'll be my dog until she passes away.
I named my Chihuahua after my late mother.
She's my dog and I won't trade her for any other.
Agnes got sick and a veterinarian examined her.
The vet discovered that she has a heart murmur.
Because of a tick, Agnes was temporarily paralyzed.
I didn't know a tick could do that, I was surprised.
She nearly died and it was hard for me to stand it.
Agnes is one of the greatest dogs on the planet.

It was the middle of the night when the power went out.
My body
accustomed to an ambient electrical hum
refused sleep.
I got up, and you followed
just like always.
We walked to the top of the hill where we lived
at the time
We've moved four times since that night.
We walked,
your collar's gentle sonance
conflicting with the silence.
When we reached the peak
we stood,
our small world lit only by the moon.
We beheld the great expanse
of the shy quiet stars
that usually hid behind the light pollution.
The milky spill of a spiral galaxy,
where we lay spinning on its periphery,
backlit the countless trails of fire courtesy of the Perseids.
And I thought
there have been more nights without street lights
than nights of human history.
These flaming trails of ice and dust,
these remnants of comets,
would exist despite those of us lucky enough
to bear witness
that night the power went out.

this is isn't poem
i just need to get it out
my dog is sick
he's dying
i don't want to lose him
but i don't want him to suffer
i don't want to live without him
but i don't know if he would be better off if i put him down

i'm terrified and i don't know what to do
i don't want to sleep because my dreams are all about losing him or life without him
i feel like i haven't fully comprehended what's happening

i found out about this yesterday right after getting home from a 2 week trip
right before i left, i had a feeling that i should spend a little more time with him because he's getting old
the whole trip something was nagging at me

i knew something was wrong this whole time
and i did absolutely nothing about it
i want him to be as comfortable as possible but i don't think i'll be able to handle being around him without breaking down

It's too early to bark, I told my dog
The neighbors are sleeping, like a log
Let's not wake them up, for a little while yet
They like to sleep in, or did you forget

Sleeping in is a challenge, for some, but not all
I like to rise early to see that new ball
Colors of the morning are often, grandiose
If you sleep in you miss it, and I need that first dose

Brian Hill - 2019 # 186

Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.

Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.

Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.

Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.

I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.