Layered Dark of Distant Trees
I mow fescue in long arcs along the lea,
Park the tractor to drink a beer on shaded deck
When we lock eyes, the young prince and I.
He is such a handsome canine brute, all fluffy dun and gray—
Like a rebel soldier before battle.
Cocking his ears, standing stiff-legged, then jumps
Forward all at once, thrusting his nose into the
Dying, drying grass. He rises, having failed, and looks at me.
I smile and nod and sleep.
When next I lift my head I see an owl
Softly and silently slip along the lane, not twenty feet up,
Then drop, stand erect, and turn his eyes to me. Calmly
He lifts himself, dangling a mouse, and without goodbye
Flies into the layered dark of distant trees.