He lies in wait like a little headstone
as dry as dry as all Alberta.
I stop to pat his scrubby mohican.
His tongue spools out his head like magma.
Over the Jamieson place
the stars are rising through a peacock dusk
nice and steady in the arid air.
He scours his butt and licks my elbow.
He falls back on his haunches like a telescope,
winking and blinking his sunstung eyes.
Last light. Mosquito bite.
I scrounge a log from the Jamieson woodpile,
an armful of pinecones for kindling.
I put the fire in.
I begin to write this nice poem about your dog.