The puppy stares through the log corral at the tall
companionable horses ambling to the fence;
the hair of her ruff bristles, fear of these giants
stirring her, though the abrupt newness holds her gaze.
Her brain imbrued with all the complex perspectives
of drifting animal stench, she studies these odd
grand beings who interrupt our evening walk
while the air cools and the blazing October sun
sets beyond the toy farm on the empty road
of the toy village, time falling away from us
over the old graveyard as the black dog watches
with careful eyes these creature of the distances,
attendant to night's stubborn bestial wisdom,
the galactic white blaze on her chest retracing
a sign out of some far genetic wilderness;
she is hearing wild dogs in the whine of the wind.
We read the graves, small histories inscribed on stone.
What more is to be said about them, the lost ones,
who are recalled tonight while all-stars-that-are come
in white fire to the observers? Morning will bring
starfish, oysters on the beach, the glitter of light
in the house of love, new confusions of friendship.
The horses now stand sleeping under this tall sky;
the dog dreams fear beneath the brightest of planets.