Layered Dark of Distant Trees

I mow fescue in long arcs along the lea,

Park the tractor to drink a beer on shaded deck

When we lock eyes, the young prince and I.

He is such a handsome canine brute, all fluffy dun and gray—

Like a rebel soldier before battle.

Cocking his ears, standing stiff-legged, then jumps

Forward all at once, thrusting his nose into the

Dying, drying grass.  He rises, having failed, and looks at me.

I smile and nod and sleep. 

When next I lift my head I see an owl

Softly and silently slip along the lane, not twenty feet up,

Then drop, stand erect, and turn his eyes to me.  Calmly

He lifts himself, dangling a mouse, and without goodbye

Flies into the layered dark of distant trees.