Spine of a Dog

Spine of a dog curves away from me and against, as heat of a tired dog warms my skin through my sweater, through his fur. He lies, front paws matched, chin tucked alongside them, neat. One still beast; one, antsy with pen at arm’s end, cramming the months and years and lives with rehearsals, games, dinners— human scrawl. Earlier, no clock or calendar counting, we strolled our constitutional past a father with toddler and tip-toeing terrier, child chanting dog-dog-dog-dog at the approach of my friend (leaning into me as I now lean back on him), switching to tail-tail-tail-tail, as boy came even with the grand curl of soft tan feathers waving from the caudal vertebrae of my fur child— the two eye-to-eye, time-free, thought-fresh.

To rest on his side, dog shifts his spine, heaves a sigh so long I am reminded, breathe as deep, swell my chest like his, send old air, take on a hint of his dog way and sprawl in the sunny patch mid-room to doze. I cannot run his run, spine parallel to forward flow, nor swing caudal vertebrae in joy, in sentience, in joy of scents, in ignorance, or in greeting. I envy his presence, whole; envy, as he gives in, as he shuts his lids—departs. Sleep rushes in a hush wave on his dog shore.