The dog has to go out. A summer storm threatens. I slip on sneakers, slip off shoe covers. The dog has to go out! We trample the grass. The leash is loose in my left hand, the blue nylon smooth from overuse. My dog searches through sniffing. I see without seeing, mostly, except for a few flashes: the startle of a feather, black and white under the bush; the nail-polish gleam of my neighbor’s car; the dark cyclops eye in the center of the sunflower. On the way back, the wind sieves leaves, a thief brandishing her weapon before the taking. Tomorrow there will be branches all over the lawn. I imagine myself, months in the future past, toting a loaded sled up the slope through fresh snow. The dog goes in. I shut the storm door.

[Featured Image: sunflower by Matthias Oberholzer, free to use]