Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Tomorrow is dark.
Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.
The sky dogs are whimpering.
Yesterday, I felt one foot was a dog and the other a woman with a leash. Step by step, who was who kept going back and forth. First the left said, “Come on, boy.” And dog Right wagged his tail and picked up the pace. Then the right foot said, “Good dog,” and dog Left pricked up his ears.
And then my dogs, both of them, stopped dead still and howled at the moon though there was no moon shining anywhere in the visible sky.
If I’d had a bone, I’d have given it to the dogs. If there were a hole to be dug I’d have urged them to go at it.
My father is terribly ill. My dogs know it. That was sadness bursting through their throats and souring the air.
Posted by Patrice Vecchione at 10:04 AM