Bob and Weave

Letting the Dog Lie

77 Letting the Dog Lie The horses thunder in the fields tonight. A breeze stays high in the pines. The dog squeezes out from under the house and stares at the ball till he falls asleep curled around my foot. For the first time in months the air is cool. The front door drifts on its hinges, the old chair lounges on the lawn. The horses rest, lean over fences pawing the ground, inviting my hands to their faces, to their withers and the sweet scratching spots. The hammock sways under loblolly pines and Orion’s belt, but I’m stuck to the ground by one foot under the sleeping dog who dreams of lightning and thunder, of mud at the edge of the pond, who dreams of the flight of old tennis balls made better than food, better than rolling in manure, by the touch of these human hands. ...