- after Rachel Carson
The Greyhound lies on her outdoor bed, pawing her eye to rid an invisible bug.
Mabel, the little dog, lies down beside her, crushing Tania’s long legs with her tank-like body. Mabel then moves to the cement, thinking her shadow will keep her cool.
My right shoulder is against the house. The wind on the cape is doing its usual dance between bay and sea, and the sun is painting my arm in broad strokes.
It’s a spring without voices. No more euphonious songs. But it is noon, when birds nap in tall leafy towers, bobble on their skinny dashboards, and mingle worms and nasturtiums on their tongues.
My right shoulder is against the house, and the wind and the sun are playing with me. I huddle more closely to the wall.
A house finch calls over next door’s construction. Mabel rolls on her back, asks for a belly rub.
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