Home from my walk, shoes off, at peace.

The weight of my old dog, Hattie—thirty-five pounds
of knocking bones, sighs, tremors, and dreams—
just isn’t enough to hold a patch of sun in its place,
at least for very long. While she shakes in her sleep,
it slips from beneath her and inches away,
taking the morning with it—the music from the radio,
the tea from my cup, the drowsy yellow hours—
picking up dust and dog hair as it goes.