Watching After August Rains

Athens, Georgia

August 28, 2014

Come the season of crow and cicada

in the stasis of late summer

when old dogs and aging men

laze about their porches, waiting

perhaps to watch a raucous squad

maneuver through the understory

working the wide angles

ever closer, closing in

to stage a raid on take home tins

containing bits of doggie kibble

left from last night’s feeding.

Let them have it all, I whisper

staring down long moments

on a languid frame of fur and bones

to spot a shallow tell-tale breath.

Sleep, not death, not yet not yet.

Good ‘ole Bowser, last of litter

just another Georgia black dog

brought in from the woods.

Seen fifteen summers, asks so little –

tummy rubs and idle scritches,

snuffle walks around the back,

some kitchen scraps atop his kibble.

Let black birds have what he won’t eat.

We grow complacent waiting, waiting.

Far away the world lurches,

the young return to learning,

the busy go their scripted way.

You who strive and chase the wind

bursting with certain conviction,

would you pause and sit a while

to watch an August day with me?

For I have seen sixty five summers

that once seemed centuries

in a lifetime of forever

but from the distance of back decks

the days may drag

but years by God

are short. They lead

to spent seasons

tired dogs, and yearnings

which have no name

borne on a fresh westerly
clearing out the August rain.

Good ole' Bowser