At dawn
the big dog—
Winston by name—
reached down
into the leaves—tulips and willows mostly—
beside the white
waterfall,
and dragged out,
into plain sight,
a fawn;
it was scarcely larger
than a rabbit
and, thankfully,
it was dead.
Winston
looked over the
delicate, spotted body and then
deftly
tackled
the beautiful flower-like head,
breaking it and
breaking it off and
swallowing it.
All the while this was happening
it was growing lighter.
When I called to him
Winston merely looked up.
Grizzled around the chin
and with kind eyes,
he, too, if you’re willing,
had a face
like a flower; and then the red sun,
which had been rising all the while anyway,
broke
clear of the trees and dropped its wild, clawed light
over everything.