It is a perfect Sunday morning.
Clover rests her head on the Adirondack chair where I am sitting. She’s never done that.
Polo is resting on the big dog pillow my daughter made for her a couple of years ago.
It’s so quiet I can actually hear birds.
“And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.”
Yes, it’s too bad my dogs can’t read Wendell Berry along with me this morning. If they knew it was a poem called “The Wild Geese,” they’d instantly be up and ready to chase a flock of migrating birds. But we don’t get geese here—wild or sober.
And we pray, not. I assume my dogs don’t pray. But today at least, they do seem content. What we need is here. They are quiet. There are their water bowls, their food bowls emptied. Here, soft grass refreshed by rain. They do not know today is Sunday.
A neighbor opens a back door. Clover turns her head. Polo merely flicks her ears.
