Night and silence
read the tarot cards.
Quiet corners turn
into fertile fields of play.
The crippled dog does his popeye walk
along the Bisbee street, pauses to do
what he needs to do and I wait, respectful of his need for privacy.
Then, when he is ready, I move down the stairs and he looks up,
considers, hobbles across the street, looks back
and with more patience than Job begins to shamble back up
the narrow street and I consider - this isn’t easy -
this is life with no false dreams,
this is a dog wearing his life as a raincoat
and the fog is always rolling in.
My own hip reminds me
that sunny days are better,
that there is no escaping latitude,
there is the season and the seed.

An August morning in fog and drizzle,
and cold, dim lit activity moves slow on steep streets.
The dog, undaunted, finds wet rock
and cold grass, waits for summer,
uncertain when that might be,
waits - there is nothing else - he waits.
I pack my car to leave,
there is nothing else.
I leave.